


Judgement, Part 1:  Bag of Tools

by Mexta



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, D/s, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 85,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mexta/pseuds/Mexta
Summary: This is Tom's story. Born in the near-future and growing up on the desolate streets of one of the last inner city neighborhoods, he's a local kingpin before he reaches adolescence. Facing a bleak future, he looks for a way out – and finds it when he's adopted by a wealthy, well-known family. But what happens when a boy who's never known innocence gets a second chance at childhood?Content notes: Violence. Abuse, including underage. Noncon and dubcon. Voluntary submission, masochism, D/s. Large age gap. Sex, mainly implied.  Please note  archive warning as well.Betas: Brknhalo241, CosmicdancerCommon people like you and meWe'll be builders for eternityEach is given a bag of toolsA shapeless mass, and the book of rules- The Heptones, Book of Rules





	1. Chapter 1

The first time I saw the man who would become my master, I barely noticed him. I was fourteen, newly adopted, and had just moved onto the estate of one of the richest men in the world; I had a lot of other things on my mind. The surprisingly tall, lean man with the odd hair and sharp, delicate features – one more in a barrage of relatives and neighbours I met around the same time – didn't make much of an impression.

"Does he ever try to fuck with you?" I asked Phillip, the oldest of my four newly acquired younger brothers, when we were alone later.

"Who, Uncle Paul? You mean mess with me or actually fuck me?"

"Fuck you." That's what I'd been expecting since I got there. Why else would these adult men be adopting teenage boys?

Phillip laughed. "No. He seems okay, far as I can tell."

I filed that away with the usual grain of salt. It's not like I trusted Phillip either; I didn't really believe any of them yet. Of course I know much better now, but I'm trying to tell you this story based on what I thought as I went along, as far as I can remember. I mean, it's all going to seem bizarre enough anyway, but at least this way you can see how I figured things, and maybe it might make a little more sense.

Back then, I was mainly focused on my immediate family members – my adoptive parents, Pat and Adele, and the group of small boys who were now my brothers: Phillip, Curtis, and the twins. I had met them all before I moved in here, of course, but back then it was kind of hypothetical. You don't really know people until you live with them, do you?

I'd spent the most time with Pat and Adele, and I figured I had a pretty good handle on them. If I hadn't trusted my instincts about those two I would hardly have agreed to the adoption. The boys, though, made me wary. Phillip was about twelve at the time and the others even younger, but what did that mean? I knew only too well what kids at that age are capable of.

 

******

 

I was twelve when I took over my neighbourhood business. I'd started planning at eleven, and seized an opening when I saw it the following year. It wasn't rocket science, to be honest; the whole thing only took a little forethought and a few careful moves, but few people around me were capable of that much. In fact hardly anyone in my community made it past their mid-teens – beyond that they'd either be dead, gone, or in jail. As for the handful of people my own age … well, I'm smart and I'm fast, and I plan ahead. In this case, it took a few strategic double-crosses – elimination of a bit of key competition before anyone knew better – a couple of quick financial deals with franchises I'd made allies out of – some demonstrations of my resolve … and in two days I was the undisputed king of the world. Or my little ten-square block section of it, anyway.

But I'm going backwards, aren't I? Let me start from the beginning and fill in the gaps. I spent my first fourteen years in South Elsen, which is an area in central New Ellay that most people who don't live there have never heard of. Back in 2072, when I was born, the big inner cities hadn't been fully revitalized like they have now. As one of the last of the old neighbourhoods, South Elsen was a kind of isolated fortress. Outsiders didn't dare come in and people born there could never leave, but the community kept a stranglehold on a certain kind of trade with surrounding areas.

Later, when I went through the adoption process, we confirmed the name of the woman who gave birth to me and found that she died when I was five, but it's not like I'd ever known her. We never found a record of the other half of my biological parentage, and short of taking DNA samples from every male corpse who'd passed through the morgue in the last fifteen years there'd be no way to find out more. That satisfied the adoption people and as for me, I didn't really care one way or the other.

At that time, no one in South Elsen had any kind of blood ties; the family unit had long since died out there. From what I've heard, before my time mothers raised their own children and had a big role in the community - which meant that back then kids had a natural bond and a taste of love and affection. But it also led to complications; a lot of street conflict came out of family loyalties and history – insults, betrayal, revenge.

By the time I was born, women in communities like mine had pretty much stopped raising their own children – they had too much stress of their own to deal with – and family units had essentially disappeared. When girls got pregnant, social agencies would put the babies in institutions for a few years to keep them alive, but the funding for that only lasted till the kids were four or five, and then the agencies would have to send them back to the neighbourhood they came from. That's how it was for me.

By then, trade had become the dominant activity in my community – the only activity, really. We supplied the surrounding mainstream areas with a wide range of illicit products, which created a kind of uneasy truce between us and the broader urban and suburban communities. The legit world left all the unpleasant stuff to us, and we delivered. With personal relationships all but eliminated, my neighbourhood organized efficiently around business needs.

So my first bond was with the block gang in South Elsen, or _local franchise_ as we were called then, who took me in because very young kids could sometimes be handy. From there I grew up learning how to make myself useful. In those first few years, besides running errands, following orders, and occasionally looking pathetic for outsiders, being useful mainly involved providing physical services to the older kids around me, and occasionally being rented out, in exchange for food and shelter.

"Keep that up if you want a place to stay," I remember an older boy telling me, as he buttoned himself up afterwards. I don't know what happened to that boy but he disappeared from our shelter soon after he said this, which may be why I always took his advice so closely to heart.

I don't actually recall feeling resentful about any of it; everything seemed to make sense to me at the time. I picked things up fast and got used to them, so I didn't get hurt a lot. In some ways, I look back on that period nostalgically. I didn't have to think for myself or be responsible for anyone else; I just needed to keep quiet and do what I was told. Those are skills I've found indispensable at pretty much every stage of my life.

Another lesson I learned early on is that if you have to do something you may as well be good at it; expertise gives you more options. So as long as providing service was my job, I figured I should do it well; and that, combined with my natural appearance – being blond and fair was a bit striking there – kept me in demand. Over time, I worked my way up through a number of small local groups until I reached the inner circle of my local franchise when I was ten or eleven. By then the physical work came effortlessly, and I could quietly focus on everything else going on around me. It wasn't that I hated my life and couldn't wait to escape, but I saw how the organization worked. I could hardly help noticing the weaknesses and opportunities that arose; it just seemed natural to take advantage of them.

At that time, the kingpin in our neighbourhood was a sixteen-year-old called Tyco, and I became responsible for his personal comfort. Local leadership was always unstable, and I'd seen a regular succession of new players take over. Each would last a few months or a year before being overthrown in the next coup. I noticed that the threat usually came from a leader's own lieutenants, who knew the business and grew too big, too dissatisfied with their roles.

Tyco was smart enough to know the risks and ruthless enough to protect himself by disposing of every second in command who grew too close to him in age or power. He missed the downside of his strategy, though — over time it made him isolated, unprotected, and exposed. The threat still existed, just not where he expected it. He certainly didn't expect it from the eleven-year-old who waited for him at home each night.

I actually had no problem with Tyco; he could be vicious and brutal but had nothing to prove to me in particular, and I found him easy enough to deal with as long as I followed the rules. We got along well, and I learned a lot from him.

"There's no shame in serving," he told me once; it must have been the last night we spent together. I agreed with him even as I drew the blade down his throat the next afternoon, and I taught the same lesson myself to the young boys who attended to my needs in the months that followed.

 

******

 

And so, like I started to tell you, at twelve years old I took charge of South Elsen. It felt more like a natural progression to me, than a driving ambition – I just figured as long as I was doing something, I might as well do it right.

Most business leaders were in their mid-teens when they took control of a franchise, so being younger I knew I had to overcompensate a little at first. To prove myself I made brutal examples out of kids in my franchise who crossed me, failed to deliver, tried to leave town, thought they could pull one over because I was young or inexperienced, or just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I used especially gruesome techniques on anyone who tried to presume on a good relationship with me to strengthen their own interests. My flamboyance got the message across, and within a few weeks I had a firmly established grip on the business with no one daring to oppose me.

Of course I needed help with enforcement, but I thought that out carefully as well. Most of the leaders before me had surrounded themselves with smart, ambitious, slightly younger lieutenants who would soon itch for their own chance at the helm. I always took my back-up from the other end of the spectrum: boys who had made it to seventeen or eighteen. At that age, they were tough and experienced, but they also knew their moment had passed and they valued the security of a high-status job. Like I said earlier, very few people in my neighbourhood made it to adulthood, so older teenagers could see their impending obsolescence, which created a kind of anxiety I found easy to channel.

I kept a much closer eye on the kids around my own age. There was a boy named Dodge who started out at around the same time as me, in a similar way, and our paths had crossed over the years; we both ended up in the inner circle during Tyco's rule. Dodge was meaner than me, and not as bright, but I occasionally found him useful for my own purposes, so I'd kept loosely in contact with him along the way.

When it came time for me to get rid of Tyco and take over the business, Dodge was the only other contender I really worried about. The obvious solution would have been to get rid of him when I eliminated the rest of my competition. But in the end, for whatever reason, I decided to keep him around. I still remember his look of total incomprehension when he walked into our building to see me at a table with two new lieutenants, Tyco's body in a corner, and the leader of one of the other franchises across from me, closing a deal. That's when I realized Dodge had never been a threat to me at all.

But obviously I couldn't take any chances so I took him aside at the first opportunity to hash out our new relationship. Dodge pledged his support to me immediately, and I accepted it, then took off three of his fingers to seal the deal. Where was he going to go after that? I always trusted necessity more than personal loyalty.

Despite all this, or maybe because of it, Dodge became the closest thing I had to a friend in those days. I didn't tell him much — I didn't tell anyone much; I was always a one-man shop — but he kept me company and provided a kind of continuity. Other transient bonds — with girls and women, occasionally boys or men — would come and go, everything based on proximity, need, negotiation. Dodge was the single longest thread that ran through my life so far.

Meanwhile I also built up my relationship with the central organization. All the local franchises dealt with a kind of head office for New Ellay, which provided certain supplies, as well as general protection and stability for the neighbourhood gangs, in exchange for a share of our revenue. I knew, from watching in the background, that the high-level players at the head office valued efficiency and control at the local level combined with cooperation centrally. Tyco had been a bit erratic and a bit long in the tooth for their tastes, so the head office had no trouble switching its contracts to me.

 

******

 

I'd like to say I did better than those who came before me — that I ruled fairly or without unnecessary violence or brutality — but that would be a lie. The truth is I took the most convenient or strategic approach in every case. I made no distinction between guilt and innocence; between customers, innocent by-standers and other players; or between reasonable persuasion and brute force. Where appealing to someone's self-interest worked best, I might negotiate. Where torture would be faster or more efficient, I used that. I hurt people not because I had to but because it was cheap, easy and effective.

I've heard it said that I'm not responsible for all these choices – that I did what I had to do to survive in a vicious, unjust world; that I was a child; that I didn't know any better. I can only tell you that's absurd.

It's true I didn't have much of a moral framework back then; I'd barely heard words like _right_ and _wrong_. It didn't occur to me to consider any decision beyond how it affected me. But some things are self-evident. You don't need to understand abstract concepts to know it's wrong to cut off a person's fingers to make a point.

Maybe I had little choice as a young child; I had to fit into the world around me. But nothing forced me to take over the business. Life before that had been tolerable. I was fed and clothed, rarely hurt, and didn't think of myself as suffering. I could have continued on the path of least resistance and looked for a way out as I grew older; others did and occasionally they survived. The alternative simply looked better to me. I acted out of personal preference, not necessity.

 

******

 

By the time I turned thirteen, I had a smooth running business, a secure position, and every personal comfort I knew of at the time. A new crop of kids had joined us by then, and the best of the lot, a young boy we knew as Kip, provided my personal services. Kip reminded me a lot of myself at his age, and I knew that when the time came, he'd be making the same calculations I once did.

Time for me to start thinking about my future.

Most of us never really had the luxury of thinking about tomorrow; we were too busy dealing with today. But with my life finally somewhat under control, I started to look around me a little more.

Most of the older kids I knew growing up had disappeared. Sometimes I heard about it — a spectacular street battle or act of vengeance — but a lot of times people just kind of faded away. Of course the obvious things like violence, in-fighting and overdoses took their toll, but so did the everyday impact of life in the urban jungle — accidents, sickness, poor judgement, general bad health. I'd always known I had a low life expectancy but now, at thirteen, I was only a couple of years away from the statistical average lifespan for my neighbourhood.

The other option was jail. In those days, law enforcement didn't waste much time in our communities. Legal rules for kids under sixteen were complicated so the system mostly ignored us until then. But once we reached adulthood, we'd be considered guilty pretty much by default. Police, with support from the army, would do periodic sweeps of the neighbourhood and round up virtually everyone they found who was over sixteen and still functional. Once in the system, almost no one ever came back.

With my position in the franchise I had some hope of eluding the round-ups, maybe for a year or two. But then what? As far as I could see, my only step up from here would be the central corporation, and they relied on a genetically-based recruitment and training system that I couldn't see any way of breaking into.

The cold reality looked pretty bleak. Any possibility of staying alive and out of jail for more than a few more years seemed doubtful at best. I kept tossing ideas around, not willing to give up so soon, but I couldn't see any clear way out.

Meanwhile, the girls I knew seemed to be disappearing even faster than the boys. At that time, revitalization efforts in some of the few remaining inner city communities, like mine, had started. Social service agencies didn't even try to have an impact on anyone already born, but they focused on "the next generation" by finding pregnant girls and moving them off the block. Then they could intervene with the babies. By now they'd figured out that putting kids back in the environment they came from didn't help, so they'd try to establish the kids in new family units in mainstream areas. The smart girls in the community got pregnant fast, seizing the chance to get out and trying to make it last. I didn't blame them for taking advantage of it.

Because of the shortage, girls had slightly higher status on the street. Of course the business controlled them, like it did everything, but scarcity gave them more value in trade. Like all leaders, I used the girls on my block regularly, mostly to bolster my status; but for routine personal comfort franchise leaders traditionally relied more on the boys who had no hope of escape. Like me.

One night I came home to find one of my better trained boys — he couldn't have been more than ten — waiting to ambush me with a stolen automatic. His attempt was clumsy and I disposed of it, and him, in a couple of minutes without even needing to call in my lieutenants.

Near the sink where I went to wash up afterwards I found Kip, who was maybe eleven at that time, calmly getting my dinner ready with his usual expression of beatific serenity. He always looked like that — like he never even noticed the sordid details of daily life around him. I knew he'd had nothing to do with the pathetic coup attempt I'd just put down but only because he was too smart for such a half-assed effort. When Kip came for me, and it wouldn't be long now, he'd do it right.

"So what do you figure you'll do," I asked Dodge during our workout the next evening, as we lifted the salvaged scraps of metal we used as weights back then. "When you get to be too old for this shit?"

From the look he gave me, I could see the question had never crossed his mind before. Not much of a deep thinker, Dodge. "I dunno," he said. "Ah … get out?"

I suppressed the usual urge to try and slap the stupid out of him. It never worked anyway. "Yeah," I said after a second. "How? What are you gonna do?"

"Start a business," he said promptly.

I paused. Yes, despite everything — the obstacles, the odds, the total absence of options — stories would occasionally circulate about a kid from the block who'd disappeared and then turned up out in the real world, in that mythical land beyond the neighbourhood. Legend invariably had it that these canny survivors set up some kind of legit business on the outside, transforming their urban skills into a life of freedom, respect and material success. It made for a compelling mythology, but I was far too grimly realistic to believe any of it.

"Uh huh," I said. "And what you gonna start this business with? You got a bankroll stashed somewhere, Dodge?" Pure rhetoric of course — Dodge knew if he tried to hide anything from me, I'd cut him into tiny pieces. Tini _er_.

Even the idea of it made him look nervous. "No, man," he said, and then gave me his ingratiating grin. "But you owe me — right, Tommy? For all those jobs?"

"Oh yeah," I said, trying not to laugh. I barely remembered my many empty promises to him. "Yeah, sure. I owe you."

"What about you?" Dodge asked suddenly, like he'd just thought of it. "You getting ready to break?"

"Dunno," I said a little glumly. "Not sure I'm going that route." Unlike Dodge, I couldn't delude myself with comforting fictions. Business was good enough, but between paying off the central corporation and keeping my own operations going I did no more than get by. No one escaped this life through their own bootstraps.

"Yeah, well, what else is there?" he asked. "I mean – what ya gonna do, get adopted?"

I joined in with Dodge's raucous laughter, and then dropped the subject. I didn't tell him that adoption was precisely what I'd been thinking about.

 

******

 

By this time, more than ten years had passed since the legendary adoption of Gabe Solomon, the one that had started it all. We'd all heard of it, even those of us jammed in a dense, impoverished urban neighbourhood; we still had the media.

As I understood it, around the time I born, this kid, Gabe, had been thirteen years old, living on the streets in downtown Detroit, when a group of five men — some brothers, some not, it was all a bit confused — had proposed to collectively adopt him. That was unheard of at the time, but the men had some gazillionaire friend who provided money, power and influence, and the whole thing exploded into a huge cause celebre. When the dust settled, the men won, the kid went to live with them, the gazillionaire friend turned into a kind of infamous anti-hero … and adopting poor urban street kids became the hottest celebrity trend and symbol of conspicuous consumption for years to come.

Growing up, we'd all heard stories of kids just like us being scooped up out of inner-city neighbourhoods like ours and instantly joining families of obscene wealth and privilege. At first I dismissed the legends as apocryphal but over time I realized adoptions like that occasionally did happen. On the block, _getting adopted_ became an expression like _winning the lottery_ or _hitting the jackpot_. Of course we all believed that the "parents" in these cases just wanted legal access to kids for the usual sordid purposes … but even so, it was hard to see how any smart, enterprising kid could fail to make something out of the opportunity.

And now, with the next generation nipping at my heels and my sixteenth birthday visible on the horizon, I started thinking seriously about how to make that mythical event a reality. I knew I didn't have much time. The Solomon boy had been thirteen, but most of the so-called celebrity-street adoptions that followed involved younger kids. I had just turned thirteen myself, and at best the process had to take a year. Fourteen would be cutting it fine — who would want to adopt a boy so close to adulthood?

Curious, I started looking into it, digging up old news vids and tracking down rumours. Although the action had started to slow down in recent years, I could still find plenty of examples. For one thing, that original group of men — or maybe their notorious gazillionaire friend, it was hard to tell — had continued to be active in adoptions for quite a while. Five or six years ago a single man named Hawkins, who'd been associated with the group in some way, had adopted five young brothers at one go. More recently, now that the Solomon boy himself had grown up, a couple of his fathers had started adopting other kids with their new families. One had adopted a boy and girl a year or two ago. Another had picked up four different boys over a couple of years, the latest being … _hm, just last month_.

I frowned and looked away, staring out the broken plastic-covered square that passed for a window in the building where I lived. How did that shit _happen_? Where were they getting these kids from? How did they choose? And what did kids do to get themselves chosen? I knew there were social service agencies that supposedly looked after kids without parents, but personally I'd never seen one. They didn't come into my neighbourhood at all, except for the ones that rescued pregnant girls. As far as I knew, no one had ever done anything for boys. So where were all these adopted kids coming from?

It had to be private. The families had money, after all. They must be sending their own people out — discreet, professional people with connections into the abandoned inner cities, making quiet enquiries and perhaps bringing back lists of possible candidates for further vetting.

But that meant someone at our end had to be involved as well — someone with access to kids on the street and who could also meet the professionals. Probably someone in each of the remaining inner-city areas. And since the only functional organizations in these areas were the businesses … that meant the main contacts had to be inside the central corporation. No doubt adoptions were another source of revenue for them. Well, at least I knew people there.

I turned back to the computer and pulled up the most recent item I could find. It covered the adoption that had been completed just a few weeks ago, which I'd already heard about. This was an interview with the parents.

" _This is the fourth boy you've adopted in three years,_ " the interviewer asked. " _Is that it for you? Your last one?_ "

" _No,_ " the mother answered. " _We're hoping to add one more._ "

" _An older boy,_ '" the father said. " _He'll be our last. We're looking for him now._ "

Every now and again something happens in your life that seems pre-ordained. That's how I felt as I sat there staring at the screen. As far as I was concerned, they were looking for me.


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't tell anyone my plan to get myself adopted, of course, and I made sure to cover my tracks. However much confidence I had in myself – and I had a lot – statistically, my chances of success had to be infinitesimal. I didn't want to live down this pipe-dream forever when I failed. Or for whatever time I had left, anyway.

But I started working on it. First I looked for more information on the family, making sure no one saw me do it. I found the parents' names – Pat Van Valkenburg and Adele Mertz. As I knew, the father had been part of the original group that adopted Gabe Solomon. That group had split up now, and it wasn't quite clear what had happened to the Solomon boy. But this couple, Pat and Adele, had adopted four kids themselves: the first boy about two years ago, so he'd be eleven now; then a pair of twins who'd be about eight; and now the nine-year-old they'd just brought home. So I'd be the oldest by a couple of years if I made it into the family.

The whole lot of them lived up on the coast a ways, out of town, on some big estate owned by that bizarre friend, the celebrity who'd financed the original battle. Tiran Marx, the name was — so rich now he was often described as the most powerful man on earth. I didn't know if I believed that, but the part about the estate appeared to be true – a bunch of different families seemed to live on it. I couldn't figure out all the connections, but it looked like the Hawkins man, the one who'd adopted the five brothers, also had a house there. It sounded freakish and complicated, but that was hardly going to stop me.

I figured the recruitment operation for this gang had to be big. I couldn't find out anything about where they were looking, but surely something this size would have to focus on more than one place. I started asking around, casually at first, with my contacts at the central corporation as well as a few people I knew who did business in other urban areas. Sure enough, though it took a while to track down a solid lead, the veiled responses I got told me there was a search actually underway, going on all around me. Finally, after a few weeks of careful digging, I landed a meeting with a mid-level man who, I was told, might be able to help me out.

"So," this man said when we met, after a minute or two of the usual posturing and circling, "I hear you got an interest in the, uh … the List that might currently be under development."

A candidate list? That sounded promising. "I might be," I agreed.

"You wanting to put a name on it? That pretty little boy you got working for you, maybe — what's his name?"

I'd never met this man before but evidently my reputation preceded me. "Kip?" I shrugged. "Maybe. I could come up with a couple options."

"Well, we can all come up with a couple. I can't offer you but more than one spot. And it'll cost you in a big way. Not sure if you know how big."

I didn't, but I wouldn't let that faze me. I asked for a number, he told me, and I made sure not to show anything on my face. I'd just have to take a loan from the franchise. After a bit more back and forth, we agreed that I'd hand over a name, a picture, and the entry price in two weeks — right before the list would be finalized and sent in to wherever it had to go. I let him think I needed more time to get the money together but really I just wanted to stall on turning in my own name for as long as possible. I didn't want to give my hand away.

"I know it's a stiff price," the list man told me as we wrapped up. "But hell, we're talking about a big pay-off for the lucky bitch who wins this lottery. And we keep that list exclusive — the numbers stay down so the odds stay high. But you understand, man — there's no guarantees in this game."

I understood, but he spelled it out for me anyway. "We don't control those folks back at the home base. Can't anyone control them. They're gonna make the final call and there's nothing we can do about it. So don't come crying to us when the odds don't work out for you."

It's true; it was a long-shot at best. And I would have to go into serious debt to make that bank. It would be a long, hard haul paying it back when this all came to nothing – not to mention the face I'd lose for trying to play the game.

"And listen." He had one more warning for me. "I've seen it happen. Everyone puts big money on their favourite kid, thinking they have 'em under control. But lemme tell you, you can't control what you don't have. I've seen where the kid got picked … and no one ever heard from 'em again. So no guarantees on that either."

Thinking about it afterwards, I realized most people buying spots hadn't figured out as much as I had. I mean, Kip was an angelic-looking eleven-year-old - exactly the kind of boy most people would expect the family to be looking for. Buyers had to be putting that type on the list and hoping to profit if their kid got lucky. But I knew better — this family wanted an older boy. Their oldest kid so far would be twelve next year, so that meant every name on the list of a kid under twelve had to increase my own odds.

I felt a little better about the money I had to take out of the business. It wouldn't be pretty if I lost, that's for sure. But if I got lucky, I could leave the whole mess behind me.

 

******

 

I don't remember all the details of what happened after the list went in. I had plenty more immediate issues to deal with — like covering the money I'd scrounged up to get my name added, for one thing — without wasting time on some farfetched daydream. And I was lucky; no one seemed to hear about me being on the list, not till much later. I guess the operation was more sophisticated than I'd given it credit for — maybe that's why I'd never heard about it till I went looking. The managers knew how to keep it discreet.

So I pretty much forgot about the whole thing for a long time, until I started getting random follow-up questions from the list man, asking about my background and physical details. I gave him what he needed and put it out of my mind again. Took a long time before I understood I'd made it through the opening rounds and onto a short list already.

That's around when the interviews started. I stopped hearing from the list man and started hearing from the pros. They'd ask me to come in for what they called a "meeting" at a drab little office building on the very edge of my neighbourhood. I couldn't tell you how many of these meetings I went to, all with different but equally anonymous handlers who gave me the same empty smiles while they asked the same two or three questions, ignored the answers, and whispered to each other as they looked from me to their screens and back again.

The questions weren't hard, and I'd learned a lot about patience by this time, so I found it easy enough. They wanted to know more about where and when I was born, and I had to sign some forms so they could search for my records. Of course I couldn't write, so I used an X for my signature. One time they asked if I'd "ever been in trouble with the law" but I could truthfully say no to that, since the law didn't bother with kids my age. Another time they had a doctor examine me, and later they went through a battery of questions that I came to realize were personality assessments. Easy. I'm not stupid.

After the first couple of meetings I knew how to play it; I let them scope me out and did what I was told, answered their questions honestly and didn't waste my breath on anything else. These people didn't need to be charmed; they were handlers going through a checklist.

But as I went along, I made a conscious decision to respond as naturally as I could. I didn't plan ahead for meetings or try to guess what I might be asked and prepare in advance. The process would obviously be long and complicated, run by professionals who'd been through it before with plenty of other kids. Why try to outsmart them? I'd never be able to keep up a convincing act for long enough. So I settled on a simple strategy — be myself, and let that be my appeal. I've always been realistic about my strengths — I'm smart with striking looks, I have a presence that people are often drawn to — plus I knew that even imperfect sincerity can sometimes trump the best act.

It must have been coming up to a year later when I first met the parents, but somewhere along the line I started to anticipate it. I guessed that they'd want to see me before I saw them — through recorded interviews or from behind one-way glass or something. When that occurred to me, I became more conscious of how I might come across. I started handling myself … not differently, but maybe a bit more carefully; I sat up a little straighter, spoke a little more clearly, looked people in the eye a little longer.

By this time the handlers had started to apologize for the length of the process and make vague noises about "compensating" me for my time. It sounded like I'd make enough to repay some of the debts I'd accumulated getting there, plus I still seemed to be in the running for the big pay-off, so I felt pretty buoyant about the whole thing.

One day I walked in for yet another interview and saw them — the couple sitting quietly, a little off to the side of the room, dressed simply and not talking to anyone but still somehow standing out. Even now I remember how different they seemed from anyone else I'd ever met. I mean, the handlers were like upscale versions of the list man and head office people I knew back home, and they in turn were just slightly more successful versions of me and the other players in my neighbourhood. Pat and Adele, though — it was like they lived on some whole other plane of existence.

Of course I knew who they were immediately but I waited to be introduced before going over and saying whatever straightforward polite words I could think of. I remember that Pat held on for maybe a second longer than normal as we shook hands, and Adele looked slightly embarrassed or apologetic as she leaned over to kiss my cheek.

They didn't say much at that first meeting, just sat by and watched while the rest of us went through the usual drill. As I recall, this interview focused on my "expectations" and how I thought I might "adjust" to a possible radical change in my circumstances. I focused on the questions and responded with broad honesty — I had no clear expectations; I thought I'd adjust slowly by watching what went on around me and figuring out how to fit in — without including details that wouldn't go over as well —like, for example, that I didn't expect to stay long, and that I'd be trying to figure out how to profit from the situation before I left.

I knew the parents were watching me, and I glanced that way occasionally, trying to learn what I could about them. Somehow they struck me as kind of earthy and much less intimidating than I would have thought; not at all what I'd expected from friends of one of the most powerful men on earth. There was this odd sort of sweetness about Pat, and Adele seemed faintly diffident. I'd expected to be anxious at first, worried about making a good impression; instead, it almost seemed like they were the ones who needed reassurance.

At home that night, for the first time, I thought seriously about the possibility that the whole absurd adoption plan might actually work. I really didn't have a clear strategy for that scenario; I'd deliberately resisted thinking so far ahead. But suddenly tonight I wanted to visualize it, and whatever vague half-formed ideas had been in the back of my mind before seemed off-base, inaccurate; I had to re-imagine everything starting from scratch. It occurred to me for the first time that what I'd said earlier was actually true: I had no idea what to expect.

 

******

 

The next time I got called in for a meeting, it turned out to be with Pat alone. I showed up at the usual office and Pat stood in the ante-room with one of the handlers, waiting for me.

He stepped forward to shake my hand, and then took my upper arm lightly, with a kind of restrained eagerness. "Thanks for coming in again, Tom. I thought maybe we could go out this time — maybe get a coffee or something. Would that be okay with you?"

My first instinct was to glance over at the handler to see how he reacted, but I stopped myself in time. At that moment I realized the anonymous grey-suited middlemen didn't matter anymore; now it was about us: me and Pat today, and then me and Adele, and maybe me and the other kids. The first part of the process had finished; the next part was mine to win or lose.

"Sure," I said, shrugging my jacket back on and taking a step toward the main office doors.

"Great. Thanks." Pat's hand slid down my arm, patting me almost unconsciously. Then he gave the man beside him a faintly guilty look, like a kid telling his mom he wanted to go to the playground instead of school. "Thanks, uh … Eduardo, is it? Why don't I bring Tom back in an hour or two. You'll be here, right? I think Tom and I will be fine on our own, if you don't mind."

It was idiotic of him, and this time I couldn't help stealing a quick look at Eduardo. The office was barely outside the borders of my neighbourhood, and the idea of a man as well-off as Pat going out completely alone and unprotected in the inner city with someone like me was pathetically naive.

Eduardo didn't bat an eye. "Of course, Mr. Van Valkenburg. We'll see you back here whenever you're ready." Then his glance slid over to me, and I knew instantly he would have us followed, recorded, surveyed, surrounded by security. I almost laughed, but Pat seemed completely oblivious.

"I hope you don't mind," Pat said earnestly, as he opened the office door and waited for me to go out ahead of him. "Adele and I thought it might be easier for you — less overwhelming — if we met with you one at a time."

"Sure," I said again. "Fine."

We went downstairs and Pat led me to a coffee shop he'd obviously scoped out in advance. It was small and kind of seedy, and I expected him to look a little nervous once we got inside, or at least to brush off the chair and table before he sat down. But again he seemed oblivious, just fussing a bit to make sure I ordered whatever I wanted. I stuck to regular coffee, he asked for some kind of complicated mixed drink and a couple of pastries, and when they came he pushed one of the pastries over to me.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am about all the crap you've been going through," he said, in between fussing. "I can just imagine how time-consuming and — and annoying it must be. We've tried and tried to get them to tone down the process, but, you know. They tell us we have to be very — I mean, they say it has to be this way. How long has it been going on for you now?"

"Um, little less than a year." I broke off a bit of pastry and gave a small shrug. Over Pat's shoulder I saw one of Eduardo's security men take a table beside the door, and I wondered how many more were already in the room. "No big deal. Kind of … like a break from the rest of my life."

"I'm glad you see it that way. Anyway, listen — " Pat leaned back and paused, looking at me gravely. "Adele and I really — we really enjoyed meeting you, Tom. We'd like to, to wrap this up as soon as we can. But the most important thing is for all of us to be totally sure of what we want — I mean, _all_ of us. We keep asking _you_ questions and finding out everything we can about you, and what do you know about _us_?"

"Yeah." I took a sip of my coffee and nodded. "Well, some," I found myself admitting. "I mean, I did research."

"Oh, of course," he said, smiling. "You're too smart not to. But — look, anyway, I thought maybe today I could tell you more about our family, who we are and where we live, what things might be like for you if you — so you'd have some idea what to expect. And then you can ask me any questions you might have about us. Would that be okay with you?"

"Yeah," I said. I put my cup down and settled into my chair. "Sure."

I don't remember everything Pat told me that day; he talked for a long time and I know he covered more than the basics. He'd obviously given similar speeches before, about his past and how he and his brothers and friends had come to adopt Gabe Solomon, how that worked out and why he and Adele had wanted to do something similar together. He described the four boys they'd already adopted and how they all lived in a house on that estate owned by Tiran Marx. The way Pat talked about Tiran made me think they had some kind of private arrangement — that he was in Tiran's debt maybe — but whatever it was, he sounded okay with it. He told me they'd only moved to the estate a couple of years ago, the boys were still adjusting, and other families with kids lived there as well.

Some of this I knew, most of it I didn't, and it was a lot to absorb at one time. As always, I listened closely, trying to file away everything that might potentially be useful down the line. At the same time, I used the opportunity to study Pat and try and get a better handle on him. He looked vaguely Italian; a solid, well-built man with a bit of youthful muscle still left in his bulk – I guessed he might have been some kind of athlete when he was younger. Probably in his early or mid thirties now, but he had a square jaw and deep cleft in his chin, with dark brown eyes and lots of thick curly dark hair, which gave him a boyish look.

I could tell he was nervous at first, relying on words and stories he'd used before. But he warmed up as he went along, growing more animated and enthusiastic when he talked about his kids and their lives, and how they all got along together and with the other families. All the while he watched me with a kind of shy concern, as though worried he might be boring me or losing me. When he started to slow down I asked a random question about school – something I'd heard of but never known – and he went into a long description of some small informal learning place all the kids went to and how it adjusted to each person's needs. I had only asked to keep him talking, but he answered very earnestly, as though he wanted to put my fears to rest.

As the conversation ebbed, he paused and said haltingly, "Tom, I know how difficult this must be for you … "

I tried not to look puzzled, wondering what he thought was so hard for me about sitting in a coffee shop listening to someone talk.

"I mean … everything I'm telling you must seem so different from your life right now. You're probably wondering why I'm wasting your time with all this useless information. If you do come to live with us, I know everything is still going to seem strange and probably kind of ridiculous to you. All the boys go through that at first – Gabe did too. I'd like to think we've learned something from the other times." He spoke with a kind of gentle gravity that I half wanted to laugh at, and half found appealing.

"Um, it's okay," I said, trying to figure out how to play this. "I mean, yeah, it's a bit strange, but I don't mind. I'm glad to hear it." Volunteering that much when I hadn't completely figured out my own strategy went against my nature, but Pat had offered a lot and I didn't want him to feel like he got nothing back.

"There's lots to talk about. I have tons more I'd like to ask you too but — we can take our time. Right? Is that enough for today?" Pat looked down, swiping at the table with a napkin. He had an air about him that I couldn't place at the time. Today I'd probably call it kindness, or maybe empathy, but I knew nothing of that back then; I just thought he left himself foolishly exposed.

"Sure," I said, reaching back for my jacket obediently.

Pat leaned forward suddenly to grab my wrist. "Tom. I'm — I'm going to tell them to go ahead and start the final paperwork. We can always stop it later if we change our mind but it's gonna take forever so I'd rather start now. Is that okay with you?"

I didn't get what he meant. "Final paperwork?"

"To start the adoption." He looked abashed, like he knew he'd gone too far and expected to be chastised. "If that's okay."

I stared at him. He wanted to know if that was all right with _me_? "Uh, okay," I said eventually. "Yeah. Okay."

"Great!" He beamed at me, his excitement unassuming and somehow contagious. "Listen, we'll keep meeting while they do it. I promised Adele she can have the next turn, but then maybe we can do it together after that, if you don't mind? And the boys too after … but I'll set up the next one with Eduardo before I leave, for tomorrow or the next day, would that work for you?"

The abrupt turn of events made me a little dizzy and I shook my head slightly, struggling to keep up. "Yeah, sure. Whatever's good for you guys."

He rattled on as we left the coffee shop and headed back to the office. "Dell's going to kill me, I wasn't supposed to say anything so soon but man, it always takes so long and we already knew … But anyway, as long as _you're_ sure, that's the main thing. We'll bring the boys in with us soon, they're dying to meet you and I'm sure you must be wondering about them. Ooh, Eduardo." Pat stopped abruptly, wincing, as we got off the elevator and saw the glass office doors ahead of us. "We're late, and he's going to be so disapproving when I tell him … Look, let's get you out of here first, I'll tell him after you leave. Then you won't have to hear the yelling." He grinned at me with a kind of conspiratorial humility, like he didn't want me catching flak for his fuck-up.

We went inside, where Eduardo and the others waited, and Pat apologized for running over time. I didn't want to look like I'd had anything to do with the news Pat was supposedly about to share, so I made my excuses right away. When I went to leave Pat walked me to the door and, instead of shaking hands this time, he threw his arms around me in an enthusiastic bear hug. "Thanks so much, Tommy," he whispered, so the others couldn't hear him. "I can't wait till you're part of the family."

As I headed home I found myself strangely exhilarated, as if his enthusiasm had infected me. _Family_. What did that even mean? I imagined the other boys, the parents, their house, their life. Did they have bedrooms? Pets? I tried to remember everything I'd heard about people who lived like that. Family meals, sitting around a table together? Homework? Games? For the first time I felt a small spark of curiosity, like it might actually be interesting to try those things out for a while.

Then I reached the apartment block we lived in at the time. Listening to Pat, I'd forgotten the seediness of the coffee shop, the shabbiness of the office, the shadiness of the whole process; everything had seemed bright with possibility. But my euphoria vanished abruptly when I walked into my squalid little shelter with the heaps of abandoned garbage and industrial remnants, piles of bottles and clothing, kids huddled catatonically against walls or screaming incoherently to themselves, used up before they reached their teens, the sound of random battles raging in the distance.

I stood in the doorway and looked around, already disgusted at the memory of my excitement. Kip heard me come in and appeared with a tray of food, as I'd trained him, stepping over a couple of comatose bodies on his way with his usual serenity. I looked down at the plate, filled with an unrecognizable, re-constituted version of some kind of fast food meal, and felt a wave of revulsion flood over me.

 _What had I been thinking_? _That there was some kind of escape from this_? I picked up the plate and hurled it across the room, then slammed my fist into Kip's jaw. His hand flew to his face as he fell backwards, but I caught him with a hand in his hair and forced him to his knees in front of me. He didn't speak, made no resistance, and I watched his hair fall over his eyes as he bent his head forward.

Pat's voice played over and over in my head, anxiously telling me he wanted to start the adoption process, asking if I minded. I grimaced as I reached for Kip, reminding myself that if anything came out of that bizarre and unlikely promise, I only needed to know one thing about Pat and his family: how to make the most of them. I'd go in, take what I could find, get out. Just like he said, everything else was irrelevant.


	3. Chapter 3

Adele didn't give as much as away as Pat did. She came across as more professional, which is to say friendly but reserved, pragmatic, and slightly sheepish about Pat's eagerness. We both knew what he had told me, but she made it seem like the decision could still be reversed. She asked a lot of questions – not so much about my past, more about hypothetical scenarios and how I thought I'd deal with them – and I could see her assessing my responses and reactions.

I admit I struggled in those meetings. I thought if I said too little I'd come across as uncommitted, but if I said too much I risked getting something wrong. To stick with my original strategy of being as truthful as possible, I had to kind of enter into an imaginary mindset, almost become – not a different person, but a person with a different history or background, and then try to answer truthfully as if I were that person.

Let's say she asked me what I'd do if I were at a beach with my little brother and he wanted to swim in waves that seemed too big for him. I had to take a minute and become the version of myself who might have grown up caring for another person, then respond from that place. Adele's watchful grey eyes unnerved me a little, but I didn't actively dislike her. It was more like a challenge.

One time Pat and Adele came together and brought the other boys. We stayed at the handlers' offices that time, though Eduardo and the others left us alone in a meeting room. I couldn't help being wary; matching wits with a couple of well-meaning adults was one thing, but boys almost my own age were a different story.

Phillip, especially, with his fresh face and hair the colour of dry cereal, studied me with a combination of curiosity and scepticism that told me he had no illusions. He had a way of looking at Pat and Adele with a kind of indulgent tolerance, like they were cute enough if you didn't expect too much from them. I remember wondering how I'd best be able to intimidate him into keeping quiet if I needed to. But for now he spoke freely enough, chatting away about his life at home, joking with Pat and asking me friendly questions.

The next oldest kid, Curtis, piped up occasionally but seemed slightly more sullen or withdrawn. The parents seemed to watch carefully and sometimes jump in as though to rescue him, or put a hand on his arm or around his shoulders, which made me guess he'd had some trauma somewhere along the line. As for the twins, they were giddy and excitable like untrained eight-year-olds everywhere.

At one point they all started talking about sports, telling stories about football and basketball games on the grounds of the big estate where they lived. After a few minutes, Phillip looked at me with his pale clear eyes and long light lashes and asked, "What about you, Tom? What sports do you play?"

_Sports_? It's like the gulf between us was so wide they couldn't even see it. I rummaged around for something vaguely appropriate to pull out. "I play pool some," I said eventually.

"Oh, we have a pool table in the basement!" one of the twins announced eagerly.

"Bet I can take you," Curtis said.

Phillip elbowed him sharply. "Yeah, sure you can Curt. Maybe he'll teach you something, if you're lucky."

"I'm sure you'd give Tom a run for his money," Pat said soothingly.

"Sure," I said, trying to summon up something like a brotherly smile. "I could use the practice."

Phillip was surveying me kind of analytically. "You do something besides play pool, I bet," he said. "Work out?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Some. I like to lift." I had a lot of definition by then. It's not that I needed brute force myself to keep my franchise in order but I liked the feeling of control and power I got from strength and endurance.

Phillip looked thoughtful as the conversation went on, and I wondered if I might have scored something on the intimidation front. But he joined in again after a minute, no more abashed than before.

After that meeting, I worried for a bit that the kids would talk sense into their parents, or find some other way to fuck up my plans. No reason I could see that they'd want to bring one more kid into the mix, especially an older one. But the meetings continued and Pat, with his usual excitement, kept telling me how "taken" with me the other boys were.

 

******

 

One day Eduardo told me I'd need to start testing to show I was clean. They'd asked me early on if I used, and of course I'd lied, and the handlers had maintained the fiction of believing me. Now I had two weeks to prove the opposite.

Like every kid in every inner city in the country at that time, I had been born with product in my blood, and I used it every day of my conscious life. It was in my veins like a vital essence. I cut down easily enough when I needed to be especially alert – like when I'd planned the take-over, and when the interviews started. But there was a big difference between cutting down and stopping.

I thought it over that night from all angles. The handlers obviously couldn't let me fake this; a false pass would be found out and point right back at them. I'd have to produce samples at the office, recorded, watched, scrutinized. There'd be no opportunity to switch or substitute, and though I toyed with the idea of shooting someone else's blood into my system, I eventually had to give that up as impractical and not necessarily effective. Where would I find clean blood, anyway?

On the other hand, they'd given me two week's notice. They didn't have to do that – they could have just taken the first sample directly. If they wanted any justification to eliminate me from the race, that would have given them anything they needed. Since they didn't do that, there had to be something in it for them to keep me in the program. Of course – the consulting company would get a commission or performance bonus on signing, and they'd already put a lot of time and effort into me. So we must be in this together to some degree.

Kicking a lifelong chemical habit in a week would be close to impossible. But weren't there programs that eased you out with other drugs? _Ofcourse_. I almost jumped with the realization, and had my comm out to call Eduardo before I thought it all the way through. Yes – the handlers probably did expect me to ask for help, and no doubt they had access to medical or other resources that would get me through the process more safely. Sure I told them earlier I was clean but that was months ago; I could say I'd just started recently – the pressure, the stress of the process had gotten to me. They'd be willing to go along with any story.

But still … something about it nagged at me. Wouldn't confessing my dependency make me vulnerable – wouldn't it be exposing myself to other people? Confessing and asking for help would be a risk – and I didn't believe in risks. Even if the big players in the organization stood to benefit from my success, there had to be others who wouldn't. The small-timers, the bit players. If they found out about this they'd have something on me for life. They'd just have to document it in some way. Maybe they wouldn't have an incentive to take me out of the competition now, but what about down the line, if I actually made it in? Could they use it later by threatening to tell the family? Blackmail me, hold it over me forever?

No. I'd come this far on my own and I'd done everything right. I had to be inches away from the finish line, from the biggest payoff I could ever imagine. Why open myself up now?

I put my comm away reluctantly and stood up. I'd just have to do this myself.

 

******

 

I made it through that week, though I gave up hope more than once. All I remember is thinking I'd lost – that I'd gambled it all and lost on this one play. I'd never really minded the idea of dying, but it burned me to the core to think it would happen with victory slipping through my fingers as I went. So close.

At one point I found myself thinking of Pat, and wondering how he'd take it when he heard I was gone. It seemed so strange that someone might possibly miss me. Would knowing I had lied about my addiction, that I'd never been the boy he thought I was, make a difference to him?

I kicked everyone out of the apartment at the beginning of the week – except Kip and Dodge – and set up security around the perimeter, giving out that I had meetings in another city. Dodge would keep up appearances for me, and I didn't worry about him.

Kip, on the other hand, had to be managed. I needed him to help me stay alive – to keep me hydrated and give me basic first aid at times. To stop him from taking the obvious advantage of my situation, I told him the whole story – I might have slightly exaggerated how close to a done deal it was – and promised that if I made it out, I'd leave my whole operation to him. Another gamble, but the odds on this one seemed good; why should he go to the trouble of taking over with a fight if he could have it all with my cooperation in just a few weeks?

For whatever reason, Kip took the deal and kept me alive during my week of hell. I realized when I came out of my delirium – the day before my first test – that he had one or two broken bones. I'm not proud of it, but he never said anything to me and I figured, after all, there's no such thing as a free lunch.

 

******

 

The tests came back clean. My restlessness increased; I could hardly sleep at night. It had to be so close now. What could possibly be left?

One more meeting, as it turned out. Eduardo told me to come in to the office a week or so later for a special appointment. I knew something was up as soon as I got there. People were speaking in hushed voices and moving more self-consciously than usual, and they kept stealing little glances toward the fanciest boardroom. I looked around curiously but didn't see Eduardo, and one of the other consultants directed me into the same little room that people kept trying not to stare at.

The buzz in the air made my senses tingle. I walked into the boardroom more on alert than usual. For these meetings, I would wear clean but casual urban clothes to heighten my street cred without looking too scary, and I always made a point of not carrying anything so I could show up alone and empty-handed; I figured that kind of made me look a little younger, more like a child, more vulnerable. That day I remember actually feeling like a kid for real.

I went into the room and saw the stranger first, even before I processed Eduardo and one of the senior women handlers sitting on either side of him: a well-built, good-looking man, sitting back in his chair, smiling easily and looking like he owned the room and everyone in it. I could see that his casually stylish clothes were more expensive than any of the formal suits on the professionals who worked in the office. He had slightly curling dark hair, an olive complexion – Mediterranean, maybe? – and a strong jaw line. At first I couldn't figure out why, but he looked oddly familiar.

"Ah, there you are, Tom," Eduardo said, standing up and leaning over the table so he could offer me his hand.

He never did that. I shook, forcing myself to move carefully, breath slowly, process. "Hi, Eduardo." I turned to the other woman, who took my hand with that limp clutch women sometimes have.

"Thanks for coming in on such short notice. We wanted you to meet with someone … _new_ , today." I could hear the pride in Eduardo's voice as he gestured at the strangely familiar man, who was now standing up and leaning across the table to offer me his own hand. "This is Mr. Marx."

"Hi Tom," the stranger said. "It's great to meet you. I've heard so much about you." He spoke affably and had a businessman's handshake, quick and firm. I could see him looking me over analytically, as though to match me up against a description he'd been given.

I had to come up with a tone quickly so I settled on a variant of my usual low-key politeness, making it more like respectful but reserved, muting my curiosity. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Mr. Marx is going to ask you a few questions, and he'd prefer to talk with you alone," Eduardo said. "Is that all right with you, Tom?"

I could barely spare a glance for the consultant. He seemed unusually insignificant compared to this new man. "Sure."

"Excellent." Eduardo waited for the woman to stand up, and they moved toward the door. Then he paused, just before leaving. "Tom," he said, "It's very important for you to be completely honest with Mr. Marx. Just tell him the truth, and everything will be fine."

"Sure," I said again, not even looking at him this time. "Of course."

I saw the amusement and slight contempt in the stranger's eyes as he watched the consultants leave. Then he turned toward me, with another of his relaxed, assured smiles. "Have a seat, Tom."

He settled himself back in his chair, and I sat down across from him, letting a bit of my wariness show.

"Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? Water, coffee?" He gestured vaguely at the credenza behind him.

"No, thanks."

He laughed a little. "I'm sure what we both need is a drink, but I guess that wouldn't be appropriate would it?" He gave me a congenial, conspiratorial smile, then seemed to grow serious. "No, but really Tom, how long have you been going through all this?"

"'Bout a year now," I said. They all seemed fixated on that.

"Well, I'm sorry to put you through more of it but I'm afraid I need to ask you just a few questions. We won't be too long."

"It's okay." I sat quietly, still trying to figure out where I knew him from.

"So I'm a friend of Pat and Adele's, and it's my job to come in at the end of this business and check a few things out. They're really very taken with you, you know. I wouldn't be here if they weren't."

It hit me as soon as he started that speech. Of course, _Marx_ – Tiran Marx. The crazy gazillionaire friend. He looked familiar because I'd seen him in the media. No wonder Eduardo and the others had turned into such simpering fools. But what was he doing here?

"Let's just say they trust my judgement," he said, almost as though he heard my thoughts. "I know the consultants here have gone through a vigorous vetting process with you. This is just for some personal extra reassurance."

I nodded, holding back my excitement. I'd never been near someone so rich or so powerful. A man like this would hardly be wasting his time if we weren't very, very close to the finish line.

"I know they've asked you a lot of questions – probably a lot of stupid, intrusive, invasive questions, over a long time. I bet it's safe to assume you haven't been able to give them totally honest answers every time … isn't it?"

He gave me that friendly encouraging look that I didn't trust one bit so I didn't answer, just cocked my head a little and returned his gaze.

He laughed, not bothered at all. "Yeah, okay, I deserved that look of total disdain. All right, let's just get started then, shall we? Your name is Tom, no last name that you know of, correct?"

I nodded, and he said gently, "I need a spoken answer each time, please."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Your mother was Bernice, died in 2077? Your father is unknown?"

"Yes, sir, both."

"Are you currently addicted to or dependent on any biochemical substances, legal or illegal?"

"No, sir," I answered.

We went on like this for a while. Tiran would refer to a handheld device of some kind to check information and then ask me to confirm it. Nothing tricky at first, just facts and figures, dates, family history, my situation and physical condition; all things I could confirm truthfully.

After a while he paused and said quietly, "I'm not going to ask if you've ever lied to the consultants here, Tom. But I'd like you to take a minute and think back through the process, then tell me if you believe you've ever lied about anything material – anything really significant, I mean."

He waited for me to think it over so I took a minute, but I really didn't need it. As far as I was concerned, the consultants had never asked me about anything that really mattered. "No, sir," I said after a while.

I looked him in the eyes each time I answered, and he watched me closely in return. I started to understand why Pat and Adele would trust his instincts; this man had a kind of intensity or energy that somehow made you believe in him.

"Do you have any reason to dislike Pat or Adele? Or any of the kids, Phillip, Curtis, or the twins?"

"N-no." I hesitated a little on that one. Why should I dislike the people who apparently wanted to give me a whole new world? But a blunt _no_ sounded a little too pat, too easy, so I made a point of hedging. "I mean … I don't feel like I know them very well, especially the kids. I don't know how they'll – how the kids might take to me. But I don't have anything against any of them right now."

Tiran glanced at me. "That's fair enough." He looked down at his device again and seemed to turn it over, as though he had finished with it. "Do you think you know enough about them to decide whether you want to go through with this?"

"Yes, sir." I smiled a little.

"And would you say … are you sure you really want to do it, Tom? Have you made up your mind?"

"Yes," I said readily this time. "I'm sure."

He nodded. "If you join them – do you think you'll stay?"

That one threw me out a little. I paused to think of a response, and he spoke again, forestalling me. "No, I see that isn't a fair question. You don't know if it'll work out, or how they'll treat you or anything. But how about this – do you think you can give it a fair shot?"

Strangely, I found myself able to answer that one without thinking about it too much. "I – think so." I wondered about that later. What did it even mean, _a fair shot_? And did I really believe I would give it that?

"Thank you, Tom. Just one last question I have to ask for legal reasons and whatnot. The consultants here have already confirmed you don't have a record and have never been charged with a crime. So I just need to ask if you've ever committed a crime that you haven't been charged with or that you could still be held responsible for?"

I hadn't expected that. I could feel myself react slightly with surprise, but Tiran happened to glance down at that moment to close his device and put it in a pocket. By the time he looked back up at me I was ready for him. "No, sir," I said.

He sat for a minute, looking at me curiously, and again I had that sense of being considered, assessed, scrutinized. Finally he seemed to make up his mind. "Thank you, Tom. You've been very patient. We all appreciate it." He stood up and walked around the table to shake my hand again.

Did I imagine it, or was there just a little more reserve in his eyes now? "It's okay." I got to my feet, wondering if I'd blown everything at the last possible moment, on that last crucial question.

He reached the door and opened it, glancing back at me over his shoulder. "It should all be over very soon now." And then he was out in the main office, full of genial chit-chat with the handlers who fawned on him like children, and I excused myself, knowing Eduardo would hiss at me to stay behind and dissect the meeting with them after Tiran left. I slipped out while no one noticed me.


	4. Chapter 4

Eduardo called me the next day, exultant. "You passed!" he shouted, and I'd never heard so much emotion in his voice. "You did it! _We_ did it! You're in! We go to court tomorrow to get the final papers. Holy fuck, the bonus on this one is gonna be … "

I sank down against the wall at home, not hearing anything else. This was it. How long had I been waiting for this moment? Now it was here and I could hardly process it.

"Fuck, Tom, how did you do it? I thought there was no way you'd pass with him!" I tuned in again finally to hear Eduardo speaking to me like a real person for the first time since I'd known him. "They say Marx is a human lie detector. There's no way you could have told us the truth all the way through this thing – we all know that. How the fuck did you pull it off?"

"I don't know," I mumbled. Apparently Tiran Marx had people convinced of a superpower he didn't possess.

"Pack your bags," Eduardo said, not caring about my answer, and I wondered idly what the hell he thought I would have to bring out of this place. "Be at the office tomorrow at noon, ready to leave. You won't be coming back."

After that it's a bit of a blur. I gave Kip what he needed to take over the business – he had just turned twelve, so that made him even younger than I'd been when I took charge. I didn't know if he'd make it and I didn't really care; he was the smartest person I knew and it just made sense to do him a favour in case I ever needed anything back later. Of course I was leaving him a bit of a mess – he'd have to deal with those funds I'd borrowed to get on the list in the first place – but that would be his problem. I didn't worry that anyone would come looking for me; I'd be living in a complex with the richest man in the world and I figured his security would keep out worse than my enemies.

When Dodge found out I was leaving, I had to fend him off. He reminded me of all my empty promises and begged me to take him with me or at least set him up somewhere else. But what could I do? It's not like Pat and Adele would be advancing me large sums of cash the day they adopted me. I made a mild suggestion to Kip that he might want to keep Dodge around, and promised Dodge I'd let him know if I had any work for him once I got there.

 _There_. Wherever _there_ was. I'd never visited the estate or even seen pictures of it, and I couldn't have pointed it out on a map, so I had no idea what to expect. I stopped thinking about it, spent the night celebrating, and showed up tired, empty-handed and full of wary exhilaration at the offices the next day at noon.

 

******

 

Pat and Adele were waiting for me, along with the usual pros and a bunch of new suits – lawyers, social workers, advisors. They swept me up and carried me along with them to the courthouse, where a dizzying sea of strange excited faces surrounded me as I followed Pat along the aisle between rows of benches. I picked out the other boys, my soon-to-be brothers, sitting on one of the benches near the front, but Pat and Adele seemed to know almost everyone, and they all chattered and laughed until a judge came in from a door at the front, and the room suddenly hushed.

For a few minutes, we took turns answering a series of questions from the bored judge who had obviously been through this before a few times. At some point they all had a discussion about my last name – I'd never had one before. One of our lawyers said the other kids used "Van Mertz", a combination of Pat's and Adele's last names. The judge asked if I was okay with that and I said I was. The social workers and their lawyers asked a few basic questions too but they seemed to be formalities. Everything had already been worked out.

I knew it was over when a huge cheer came up from the packed room, and the judge banged her gavel a few times before smiling and giving up. Everyone nearby hugged me and each other, and then I got shuffled into another room where we signed papers while cameras whirled and people applauded, and then there was another round of hugs and handshakes and then, finally – finally – Pat put his arm around me and steered me away, out of the room, along the hall, through the front door, and down the steps to the sidewalk.

In the street in front of us a car waited and Pat guided me inside. I put my head against the window and shut my eyes, trying to drown out the noise as more people piled in behind us. When the car started moving and I looked around, I realized only Pat, Adele, and the boys were with me. My new family.

 

******

 

I don't remember much about the drive home. I know the twins rattled on incessantly, and Phillip occasionally tried to slow them down; Pat and Adele spoke to each other or the older boys in quiet voices; Pat rested his hand on top of mine as though to keep me from bolting. My parents sometimes tell me they worried on the way home that I had changed my mind, because I was so quiet and they couldn't get any responses out of me.

I remember seeing flat, open ground for the first time – I had never been away from the dense vertical concrete of South Elsen – and freeways, and then glimpses of green, grass and trees, and finally water, blue and shiny silver ripples, waves, the ocean. I recognized all of it from the media of course but nothing prepared me for what it looked like in real life. At one point I asked if they could put a window down, and I felt salt breeze on my face as we drove along the coastal highway.

Eventually the car turned onto a smaller road and soon started following a high concrete wall until we reached a set of ornate gates that opened silently as we pulled up. When the car drove through, I saw inside a small gatehouse where a couple of guards watched multiple screens with weapons slung over their shoulders. Looking behind us, I saw a number of similar buildings dotted along the solid perimeter wall and felt a rush of relief; no one I'd alienated back home would get through there. Then I found myself wondering uneasily if it would be any simpler for me to get out.

The drive curved through green fields and meadows, some cultivated, some wild with grass and flowers, and I wondered who looked after them. At first I thought the small structures dotted around the fields were houses; then I realized they were work sheds and felt stupid.

I stared out the window as the chatter grew to an excited crescendo around me; the twins kept trying to point things out but I had enough to look at on my own. Ahead of us, a more landscaped area opened up, with green bushes and bright gardens and walkways, and in the middle of it the biggest mansion I'd ever seen in my life.

"That's Tiran's," I heard Adele say a little apologetically. "Our place is just over there."

I followed her gesture and fuck if there weren't more huge houses. Not as big as the first one, but bigger than I'd ever imagined. A group of them, arranged like pretty but out of proportion sculptures around all the green decoration, and behind that, more green, trees and grass, and a glimpse of another clutch of ridiculously large houses in the background.

The car stopped, the kids tumbled out and more people appeared, coming out from buildings or cars that followed us in. I stood beside the open car door trying not to feel dazed – not so much at the noise and chaos, which I knew well enough from my own neighbourhood, but by the colour and space and size and openness; the wide vivid horizons around me. It all seemed too bright to me – harsh and discordant; I wanted to shield myself from it.

People began gathering up to us, everyone trying to tell me a million things at once; I recognized a few faces from the courthouse or maybe from the media. But as people got close, Adele scolded them away while Pat took my arm again and hustled me down a path and into one of the vast sculpture-like houses nearby.

After that, my memories are different. They're less blurry and more acute, but also more episodic. It's hard to describe the process of growing accustomed to things. Like, for example, I couldn't tell you when our house stopped seeming huge to me and became a normal size. But eventually it did.

 

******

 

What I remember about that first day is seeing my bedroom. Pat and Adele apologized for putting me in the basement – or what they called the basement, though it didn't seem dark or dingy to me – because all the bedrooms upstairs had been taken. Maybe to compensate, they'd made my room extra large, with an attached bathroom and lots of empty space. I think it was bigger than the entire place I lived in back home. All the furniture shone and the surfaces gleamed; I'd never known anything so clean. Once I saw it, I didn't want to leave the room.

The boys didn't get that at all; they kept wanting to show me things, introduce me to people, take me around the estate. Pat and Adele helped me to fend them off, though Adele did insist on leading me through the house once, so that I could find the kitchen "if you get hungry," she said, and so I knew how to get outside and where to find her and Pat.

Finally, to my relief, they all left me alone in my bedroom, and I spent some time opening and closing doors, turning screens on and off, trying to figure out how things worked. And then I just sat on the bed for a while, letting myself slowly unwind and adjust.

Toward evening I heard a knock on the door, and Pat came in with a tray and some kind of clothing thrown over his arm. "We thought you might want to eat here for tonight," he said, putting the tray down. "I know it's a lot to take in on one day. But we'd love to see you for breakfast in the morning. Do you think you'll be up for joining us?"

I glanced at the plate on the tray, which looked better than anything Kip ever made for me, and started to move off the bed. "Oh. Yeah. Okay. What time?"

"Whenever you're ready. We'll wait for you. Look, I, uh – I brought you some pajamas too." He held out the clothes a bit sheepishly, and when I looked at him blankly he added, "Um, they're for sleeping in. For wearing to bed."

For a second I thought this was it – that the reference to sleeping was Pat's lead-in to the price I fully expected to pay for all this luxury. I remember being startled that it happened so soon, and then annoyed at myself for not expecting it. _No free lunch_ , I reminded myself; I'd long since come to terms with that. Besides, the sooner Pat started making demands on me, the sooner I'd have something to use against him to start doing business.

Then I realized Pat had put the clothes down and moved back toward the door. "We noticed you didn't bring anything with you – and you'll need something to wear," he said. "So how about right after breakfast tomorrow we take you out clothes shopping?" He spoke cheerfully, and I watched as his hand reached for the door knob.

"Okay. Sure," I said.

He looked at me a little more closely, and his face seemed to grow softer. "How are you doing, Tommy? Holding up okay? Everything must seem so different from … what you're used to. Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah." I glanced around the room briefly. "Everything's great. Thanks."

"You're sure you don't want some company?" He hesitated. "We could – "

There it was again. "No." I cut him off instinctively, even while I winced inside at trying to delay the inevitable. "I'm fine."

"Of course," he said. He smiled at me, a little sadly I thought, and then moved his hand up to the side of the door frame. "There's, um … there's a bolt on the door, here," he said quietly, showing me. "If you're, you know, more comfortable ... And, oh – did you see the intercom over there? Right beside the bed. Just push that button any time if you need anything – you know, if you wake up in the night and can't remember where you are or whatever. It connects to our room and we don't mind, honestly, any time … okay?"

"Okay." I stood beside the bed, seven or eight feet away from him, not moving, still braced, waiting.

Pat looked around again, and then back at me. I could feel how much he wanted to come closer, to touch me or put his arms around me, but I stayed where I was and so did he. "Good night then," he said finally. "See you in the morning. We're so glad to have you here, Tom."

He left, and I stayed motionless for a few moments before going over to the door. Yes – there was a small latch or bolt I could draw across that would lock the door from the inside. I opened and closed it a couple of times; it seemed tamperproof. Turning, I went around to the windows and checked – all locked on the inside. I noticed there was a connecting door of some kind beside my bathroom, also bolted on my side.

The dinner tray on my desk made me realize I was hungry. As I ate, my eye fell on the pyjamas Pat had left behind and I laughed a little to myself. They looked ridiculous but if wearing them was the biggest price I had to pay so far, I must be doing okay.

 

******

 

I showed up for breakfast the next morning, and though the kids were as excitable as ever, they seemed to hold themselves in check; probably there had been some discussions about not scaring me off. That was fine by me. We ate outside, on a little deck beside the dining room, and the greenery and colourful vegetation surrounding us seemed slightly less abrasive to me by the end of the meal.

The boys pressed me again to check out the grounds with them, but this time I had an excuse, as Pat announced he was taking me shopping before I did anything else.

"Maybe later," I told the kids, figuring I couldn't put it off forever.

"You want to join us, Pip?" Pat asked Phillip. "Tom could probably use your input."

 _Where did he get that idea_? I tried not to glower as Phillip agreed to come with us.

After breakfast Adele took me aside to tell me she'd set up some tests for me. Apparently school started in a few weeks, and they wanted to figure out where to slot me in. She asked if I'd be up for some meetings later on in the week with a company that specialized in what she called 'educational assessments'. I said that was fine with me. Internally, I thought it sounded a lot like what I'd been going through for the last year; why had I expected it to stop now?

The shopping trip turned out to be another new experience. Nothing in the stores looked anything like what I wore back home. It occurred to me that I had no idea how people dressed here or what the kids at school would be wearing, and found myself wandering through the racks at a bit of a loss.

Phillip trailed along beside me for a while, making mild comments about things I looked at and apparently trying to suss me out. "Yeah, that's nice," he'd say encouragingly; or, "Oh, you like that look?"

I really had no idea what he was talking about but hardly felt like admitting that to someone I barely knew. He could just as easily set me up for an embarrassing failure as provide good advice, couldn't he?

Pat had left us discreetly, saying he had errands of his own to run and would meet us in a couple of hours. Obviously he expected Phillip to provide the support on this. After a while, I decided the safest approach would be to spend today absorbing information – watching what other kids around my age wore, checking out the ads, trying to get a feel for local styles.

Except that I'd have to get _something_. I literally had nothing to wear except the clothes on my back – and Pat's pajamas, now. I needed at least a couple of basics to get through the next few days.

"Here," Phillip said, suddenly turning up beside me with an arm full of clothes. "Try on some of these."

I looked at him, and then at what he was holding. Nothing looked too outlandish. I had to do something, didn't I?

"Okay," I said reluctantly, and followed him to the change rooms. He waited outside, making suggestions and offering comments when I stepped out to check myself in the larger mirrors. He obviously had a good feel for sizes because everything fit me well, and when I compared myself to what I saw other kids wearing I thought the things he picked out seemed pretty innocuous.

In the end I took home a couple of the outfits Phillip picked out. I still didn't trust him, but I figured this would be a good way to test out his intentions. If he'd set me up I'd soon know, and then I could figure out how to deal with him in future.

We picked out a few other basics that I didn't worry about as much, and a pair of sunglasses. When it came to shoes and outerwear I knew what I liked. By the time Pat met us, I had a lot more than I'd expected to. Phillip had shown me how to charge everything to the family's account but I'd kept track of the totals and I watched Pat's face closely as I told him what we'd spent. He seemed unfazed.

"Come in here for a minute, Tom," he said, leading me into one of those comm system specialty stores. "We need to get you set up with a personal comm. Why don't I go start your plan while you pick out the device you want?"

That was a relief. I'd left my old comm behind and I wasn't sure when I'd get a new one. Phillip followed me as I went to check out the various products on display. I didn't think I needed any advice this time but as it turned out I wasn't familiar with some of the newest technology, and when Phillip put in a few suggestions that sounded useful, I found myself giving him the benefit of the doubt again.

"Now how about some lunch?" Pat asked, as we left the store.

We went to a casual restaurant, though I found it fancy at the time, and I noticed people staring at us as we ate. When Pat saw me glancing at the gawkers he apologized and asked if it made me uncomfortable.

"It's okay," I said. For some reason I found strangers easier to deal with than my new family at home.

"Get used to it," Phillip advised unconcernedly. "If you think about it too much you'll feel like you're in a cage at the zoo. It's easier just to forget about it."


	5. Chapter 5

Back home, I spent a lot of time putting my new clothes away in the closets and cupboards, trying things on, taking a shower and drying myself off with the big soft towels hanging in the bathroom. I also used my new comm to send a brief message to Dodge, telling him I was still getting settled in and would let him know more later. I was careful not to give him a way to contact me back.

It must have been late afternoon when I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I expected to see Pat again, but this time Phillip pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Hey," he said. "How's it going?"

"Okay." I made a point of sounding relaxed and slightly bored, not wanting my wariness to show.

"Everything okay?" He glanced around curiously, but didn't wait for an answer. "I just wanted to let you know that we're heading over to the games room before supper, and the little ones really want you to come."

"Oh." I paused, thinking it over. I'd actually started to feel a little curious about the rest of my environment, so maybe that wasn't a bad idea.

"It's up to you," Phillip went on as I hesitated, "But I should warn you that mom's also got a couple of people coming over for dinner tonight. So if you'd rather space it out a little, you might want to meet the fam tonight and save the other kids for tomorrow."

Once again, that sounded like good advice and I found myself tempted to take it. "Fam?" I asked, stalling.

"Yeah, more family. Uncle Rocky, Uncle Paul, Gabe." Phillip rolled his eyes a little. "Maybe Tiran, if he deigns to show up."

"I've met Tiran," I offered, just to fill the space.

"Oh, you have?" Phillip raised his eyebrows curiously and waited for a second. When I didn't say anything else, he shrugged and added, "Okay, well, I should get going … so you want to come with, or … ?"

I made up my mind. "Uh, no. I'll do it tomorrow. When's dinner, anyway?"

"Couple hours. I'll let mom know you're up for it." Phillip gave me a little grin, and then, instead of leaving, walked across the room to the connecting door beside the bathroom. "Hey, have you checked this out yet?"

"Checked what out?"

He slid the bolt back and opened the door. "Maybe you can kill a couple of hours in here before dinner."

I went over to see what he was talking about. The door opened into a bright, spacious room filled with large complicated pieces of equipment that looked brand new. Puzzled, I took a couple of steps inside and studied one of the contraptions more closely, until I suddenly realized what it was: a weight machine. I stared around the room again, gradually recognizing pieces of equipment for strength training and other kinds of exercise.

"A gym?" I said, finally. A fully equipped home gym right here beside my bedroom?

"Used to be our playroom," Phillip answered, coming in behind me. "But we didn't need it once the rec centre was built. We just keep the pool table out there."

I stood for a minute, taking in the various pieces of machinery and wondering what they all did. "I can – use this?" I asked. "Everything?"

"Course," he said, on his way to the door. "It's for you. Have fun. See you at dinner." He left before I could say anything else.

 

******

 

I was still in the gym, trying out one of the weight machines, when I heard the sounds of new people arriving upstairs. A door slammed, voices boomed out across the house then mingled in quieter exchanges punctuated with low rumbles of laughter, footsteps spread across the floor above me. I heard the click of Adele's heels coming to join the newcomers and her voice mixed in with the others.

Time to go play the game. I slipped off the machine and went into my bathroom for a quick shower before making my appearance.

Upstairs, things had grown oddly quiet again. I found Adele mixing drinks at the bar in the main living room, with a man maybe ten years older than me helping her. He looked maybe Spanish or South American, a bit short but well-proportioned, with a dark complexion and dark hair.

Adele was speaking to him in a low voice as I came in, and I just caught the end of her sentence, something like, " … you know what he's like when Ti's around."

Then she saw me and stopped. "Oh, there you are, Tom!" She took a couple of steps toward me and kissed my forehead. "I hope you don't mind that we invited a few people over. Pip said he mentioned it and you were okay."

"Yeah," I said. "Sure." I glanced around, wondering where the others were.

"This is Gabe Solomon," Adele went on, putting an arm behind the other man to push him forward. "You know, Pat's son from before. Your half-brother, I guess."

Gabe smiled and put his hand out to me. He had boyish features and a quiet, soft expression like he didn't want to make trouble for anyone. "It's great to finally meet you, Tom. I've been hearing so much about you."

"Likewise," I said. "You're kind of famous."

He laughed. "For all the wrong reasons, I'm afraid. Or did you mean the adoption thing?"

"Yeah, for being adopted." I wondered what else he was famous for, but at that moment Adele put two drinks in Gabe's hands, picked up a couple more herself, and started for the glass doors that led outside.

"Come on and let me introduce you to the others, okay, Tom?" she said over her shoulder.

Gabe followed her and I trailed along behind them, bracing myself for more people. When we got outside, I saw two men lounging in deck chairs on the patio – one of them large, dark, muscular, and slightly familiar looking; the other very tall and slim, with a shock of black curls over his narrow face.

"Rocky," Adele said, going over to the big man first. He leaned up to take his drink and looked at me with open interest as I came out. "Here's Tom. Tom, this is your Uncle Rocky."

She turned to hand the other glass to the skinny man, who took it languidly and gave me a curious glance. "And this is your Uncle Paul."

"Tom!" Rocky stood up to clasp my hand and bang me on the shoulder with a broad, friendly smile. He had a deep, kind of rumbly voice. "Very exciting for all of us to meet you."

I remember thinking that Uncle Paul didn't look so excited, but he put a hand out to me with some mild comment and I made the usual polite responses to both of them. Rocky pulled me down to a chair beside him and I thought he was about to launch into an interrogation of some kind, but Adele spoke up first.

"I have to go inside and get dinner finished, if you guys want to eat tonight," she said, moving back to the door. "Tommy, will you be okay out here for a couple of minutes?"

Where was Pat? Or Phillip for that matter? I found myself missing them, for some reason. But I just said nodded and said, "Sure."

"Be nice to him," Adele told the men sternly.

Rocky grinned over at Gabe, who had taken a chair beside the glass doors, still holding the other drinks. "Aw, we know how to be nice to new people. Don't we, Solly?"

On her way in, Adele paused and looked back at me. "Oh, Tom, I'm sorry – what would you like to drink?"

"I'm okay." I couldn't help adding, "But, um … where's Pat?"

"He's just talking to Tiran. They'll be out in a second. Are you sure – soda, juice?"

I shook my head, and Adele went inside. As I expected, Rocky immediately started in with a bunch of questions – How do you like it here? How are you adjusting? Who have you met so far? It seemed innocuous enough and probably meant to be friendly but I gave my usual one-word responses, not encouraging him. When he paused to make a little aside to Paul, I decided it was time to switch the subject.

"So, Uncle Rocky … " I said, as he turned back to me. "You're related to Adele?"

"Nah, not Adele, the other side," Rocky said. "Pat's my little brother."

Now I realized why he looked so familiar; he was basically a bigger, older, burlier version of Pat. Even his open, jovial brashness resembled the enthusiasm Pat always had to work to keep in check.

"And plus I'm one of Gabe's fathers," Rocky added, "So that makes him your cousin or something."

Over by the door, Gabe choked a little. "Adele just said we're half-brothers. Way to make us look like hillbillies, Rocky."

"Brother, cousin. It's all very Chinatown."

I didn't know what they were talking about. "Wait. You mean you and Pat … started the adoption thing?"

"Not just them," Paul put in. "Gabe's my son too."

Interesting. The fight to adopt Gabe had been epic, legendary – it was kind of amazing to be sitting here with three of the main players. On the other hand … apparently Pat wasn't the only one with an interest in young boys. "How old were you when you got adopted?" I asked Gabe.

"Thirteen," he answered, and I nodded to myself. Seemed like a common pattern. I made a mental note to keep an eye on the uncles. I mean, I'd resigned myself to accommodating Pat – I owed him, after all, and I planned to profit from it – but the entire extended family would be a different story.

"So," I went on, figuring I might as well be sociable and gather more intelligence at the same time, "Pat your brother too, Uncle Paul?"

"No, no – we're just old friends," Paul said. "We're not actually related at all. I'm more like an honourary uncle."

Before he finished speaking I saw a movement at the door and looked up to see two more men coming out. I recognized Tiran Marx, looking as polished and self-assured as he did the last time I saw him, and – was that Pat behind him? Why did he seem so different?

"Don't tell me you're boring this poor kid with ancient history," Tiran said, taking one of the drinks from Gabe's hands without even looking at him and coming out onto the patio. "Like he cares who you guys are."

"He asked," Paul said tetchily, under his breath.

Tiran slapped Rocky's legs, and Rocky drew his feet up to make room for him on the edge of the lounge chair. There were other chairs, but Rocky's looked like the most comfortable. Tiran gave me a good-humoured smile. "Don't worry, we have more interesting people for you than these old-timers."

"Hi, Mr. Marx," I said, getting up to be polite.

"Nice to see you here, Tom. I'm so glad all that process stuff is over with." He spoke with emphasis. "How are you doing now? Getting settled in okay?"

"Talk about boring," Rocky jumped in. "Don't you think everyone asks him those exact same questions?" He shot me a self-deprecating guilty look that almost made me laugh.

Tiran gave Rocky a little shove and Rocky half fell out of the chair. As the two of them traded playful pushes and barbed comments, I turned to look at Pat. He still stood beside the house like he was afraid to move, his whole body stiff with anxiety, his eyes fixed on Tiran. I couldn't figure out what had happened to him.

"Where's the other kids?" Tiran asked after a moment, ending the squabble by pulling Rocky's chair out from under him and sinking into it himself with a kind of casual entitlement. "Shouldn't you be hanging out with them instead of the old men?" he asked me.

I watched as Rocky picked up his drink and went over to perch on one of the low stone walls; though he was bigger and stronger and obviously willing to fight back with gusto, he apparently yielded as soon as Tiran chose to stop the game.

"Phillip said they were going to the games room," I answered, after a moment. "Guess they're not back yet."

Around then Adele came out, saying dinner was just about ready and asking if we'd seen the boys.

"You go round them up, Sol," Tiran ordered Gabe. "I can't stay long, I'm going out later. And I'm hungry."

Gabe nodded and headed inside.  I saw Pat shoot a quick, nervous look at Tiran – a question of some kind, I thought – and when Tiran nodded, he followed Gabe into the house, while Adele asked polite questions about Tiran's plans for the evening.  After a minute Pat came back out with a small tray of appetizers, which he put in front of Tiran though I noticed Rocky and Paul helped themselves just as avidly.  As the others chatted, Pat seemed to remember me; he came over to give me what might have been a reassuring smile if he hadn't been so consumed with tension.

Phillip, Curtis and the twins arrived only a few minutes after Gabe left; they must have met each other on the way. After that the usual chaos descended, with the twins throwing themselves onto Rocky, Tiran coaxing a few sentences out of Curtis, Adele and Pat bringing dishes out to the table and trying to get everyone to sit down, and Phillip coming to stand beside me and watch the others with slightly detached amusement.

Dinner turned out to be easier than I expected. Pat and Adele made sure I sat between them, and I saw that they shielded me from too much attention. I could feel a kind of energy and excitement at the table, but with so many people around I found it easy enough to stay in the background and watch the dynamics play out. As always, I noticed the details, like the way Tiran sat at the head of the table, with Adele on his right and Paul at the other end. The way Pat hovered, standing, in the background until Tiran nodded at him; then he sat down beside me. And the way Gabe jumped up to help Adele serve dishes and clear plates, especially Tiran's.

I also noticed that I barely understood these people. I mean, they spoke English and so did I, but the slang and idioms, the in-jokes and references – it was all incomprehensible to me at the time. It occurred to me that if one of them had, say, joined me for a business meeting back home, they would have been equally lost, so it made sense. I just hadn't factored in learning a new language on top of everything else I needed to get used to.

After dinner Tiran made his exit, taking Gabe with him, and the energy level dropped noticeably after that. Pat, for one, lost his anxiety and almost went back to normal; but I thought Rocky also grew more relaxed and laid back, and even Paul, who had seemed a little on-edge with Tiran there, settled down. I couldn't tell if these people liked Tiran or didn't, but they all reacted to his presence.

We sat for a while with coffee and dessert, and then the younger ones begged Rocky and Paul to play pool with them so we all moved downstairs to what they called the rec room – an open space outside my bedroom with a couple of game tables, some comfortable couches, and a large screen.

I let myself be drawn into a few games until I could escape gracefully and then went to join Phillip on one of the sofas at the other end of the room. By that time Pat and Adele had disappeared upstairs, and Uncle Paul seemed to be taking Curtis fairly seriously at the pool table, while Rocky wrestled playfully with both twins on the floor.

"Was it painful?" Phillip asked under his breath. "I heard you got left alone with them. Sorry about that."

I lifted a shoulder. "It was okay."

The twins kept shrieking excitedly and throwing themselves back onto Rocky every time he tossed one away. As I watched the casual, natural way he manhandled them, I felt a sudden instinctive conviction that he had no carnal interest in kids. Whatever his motivation might have been for adopting Gabe, or for hanging around with his brother's children, it wasn't that. Over at the pool table, Uncle Paul watched Curtis line up a shot, and I couldn't get quite as much of a handle on him. That was why I asked Phillip later whether Paul ever messed with him, but Phillip only seemed amused and dismissive.

Eventually Pat came downstairs to take the little ones up to bed, and there were plenty of hugs and kisses all around; no discomfort with physical contact that I could see. The other adults came over to join Phillip and I on the couch, Rocky looking a little dishevelled and breathless but still good-humoured.

We hung out for a while that night, chatting, and since it seemed like my chance to get background, I asked a few more questions and started putting things together. Apparently Rocky lived in a town a couple of hours away, with a wife and two more adopted kids, but came to visit regularly, often for the weekend. Paul worked for Tiran and lived in one of the other houses on the estate. Rocky, Pat and Paul, along with a couple of other brothers, had once lived together, and that's when they had adopted Gabe.

I figured I could get away with asking, so I did. "So what made you decide to adopt a kid together?"

Any of them could have answered, but Pat and Paul just sort of exchanged looks and waited for Rocky, who gave a sheepish grin and a helpless shrug and searched for words. "Oh, I don't know, Tommy," he said at last. "It's always hard to explain. I guess there's just this feeling you sometimes have, that, you know, you're really lucky. And kind of wanting to share that feeling a bit."

I smiled at that and didn't press any further. Inside I thought, they want us to feel lucky? I still hadn't made up my mind on that.

So that was the first time I met Paul, and like I said, I hardly noticed him. I had too many other things on my mind. Later that night, after the others had left and Phillip and I had debriefed a little, when the house was quiet, I lay in bed turning over the bits of information I'd learned that night, and wondering about the new questions I had now. What else was Gabe famous for besides being adopted? Why did Pat get so shaky around Tiran? And what did all these grown men want with a bunch of adopted kids?

I hadn't planned to stay with this strange group of people long enough to worry about things like this; the idea was to get in, do business, and get out. I think it occurred to me for the first time that night that it might be harder than I'd expected to figure out how to profit from my new situation.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Uncle Rocky joined us for breakfast, as I came to realize he often did. He'd sleep at Tiran's place but liked to have an early breakfast with us, then a second one when Tiran got up a few hours later.

I could see Pat looking like he wanted to talk to me but there was too much going on for any private conversations. I'd authorized Phillip to tell the kids I'd go over to the rec centre with them that day and they were all excited.

They wanted to head over right after we finished eating, but I insisted on a workout first. I could hardly ban the kids from the gym but Phillip, to my relief, kept them out of the way long enough for me to get an hour or so of work in. Then I showered, dressed and joined the boys again, ready to go.

I knew vaguely that the games room was behind our house, so I was a bit surprised when they wanted to leave by the front door. Outside, the brilliant colours, open space and unobstructed sun still made my eyes hurt, but the sunglasses helped a lot.

It turned out the kids really wanted to give me the grand tour, not just take me to the rec centre. I figured I might as well go along with it, so I could start to get my bearings. Excited, the twins ran ahead of me, pointing out one thing after another – "There's the tennis courts – and here's where we play football – and down there's the cliff and Tiran's beach – and the basketball court is here, and that's Tiran's gym behind it … "

From the way they described some things as " _Tiran_ _'s_ " I understood certain areas of the estate to be off-limits to us. When I asked Phillip about it later, he shrugged and said nothing was forbidden; the kids just preferred to avoid the areas that Tiran and the others frequented so as not to be running into adults all the time. As usual, I filed Phillip's information away with a mental note to confirm from another source.

I knew the estate was big, but I guess I didn't really understand how big until we'd been walking around it for almost an hour and still not seen what they wanted to show me. Finally we ended up on little path that led across a large green expanse toward the second group of houses I'd seen on the day I arrived. Looking around to try and get my bearings, I thought I recognized the back of our house behind us and asked if that was it.

"Yeah," Phillip said, pausing for a minute to gesture around. "There's kinda like two groupings of houses. First there's Tiran's _mansion_ " – he said it derisively – "by the ocean, and the three houses that sort of face into it – ours and Dusty's and Blackie's. Then there's this big lawn behind them " – his arm swept out around the area we were crossing through – "and on the other side, up ahead of us here, there's five more houses that kind of curve around the lawn – so they're _also_ facing Tiran's house. You'd almost think he was a bit of a megalomaniac or something. Though he says it's to give all the houses a view of the water."

I turned around and saw that, at least, was true – you could see the ocean from here, glittering way below us, silvery blue under the noon sun. Then I realized we were on a bit of a point, or promontory between bays, because the water lay not only behind us – behind Tiran's house – but to our left as we crossed toward the other group of houses and also, somewhat off in the distance, across the main drive that led in from the highway, on our right.

"But who _lives_ in all these houses?" I asked.

"Oh, you know – " Phillip gave another vague wave. "Friends of Tiran's. People who work for him, or … whatever." I thought he hesitated slightly, which seemed a little odd for someone who usually knew exactly what he wanted to say. "People he collects," Phillip finished.

"Anyway," Curtis put in, cutting to the chase. "The games room is right over there. Just behind the Hawkins' place."

As we drew closer to the second group of houses, the twins raced ahead onto a smaller path that ran between a couple of the buildings in front of us. As Phillip had said, there were five houses in this group, most about the same size as the one we lived in, well-spaced and arranged in a bit of a semi-circle around the lush, landscaped lawn. Phillip pointed to the one on the far left, closest to the water on this side of the point, and said it was Uncle Paul's.

"The next one is the Hawkins' place," Phillip went on, pointing to the second house on the left, which was kind of strange-looking – higher and more sprawling than the others. "Nine kids. Their dad Jimmy is an old friend of Tiran's."

"Hey, I'm gonna go tell them we're here," Curtis said, heading over to a door at the side of that house.

Phillip glanced at me, like he wondered if I wanted to hear any more. I did – these kids were part of the picture here – so I let my interest show, and Phillip continued. "They say Jimmy adopted the first five boys when he was really young, like nineteen or twenty. That was just a couple years after Gabe, and Jimmy heard about these orphan brothers who wanted to stay together, but no one wanted five boys. So he goes and asks Tiran to take them in because it's just around the time when everyone knows Tiran's made a _lot_ of money. And of course Tiran says ' _Forget it, I'm not taking on all that_.'" Phillip mocked Tiran's voice a little, making it sound like nothing decent could ever be expected from that quarter. "But then he says to Jimmy, you know, ' _If_ ** _you_** _want to do it, I'll support you_ '. So Jimmy does – he adopts all five boys and makes Tiran step up and help out. This was a while ago – before I came into the picture. Before the estate. Actually I think it's part of the reason Tiran bought this place … so he'd have somewhere to put Jimmy and all the kids. And then, you know, Pat and Adele started talking about adopting so Tiran figured he had to put us somewhere too."

We were passing the side of the Hawkins house now; Curtis had disappeared inside, and Phillip and I followed the little path that ran between it and Paul's place. At the end of the walk, behind the houses, I could see a large, rustic-looking building where the twins were already scrambling inside. I slowed down a little, so I could catch the end of Phillip's explanation before we reached the building.

"The story goes that the second set of kids was a total shock to Tiran," Phillip continued. He glanced at me now and again as he spoke, and I'd nod to show I was listening. "He already had the estate planned out, all the houses designed and assigned. And then Jimmy just kinda springs it on him that he's taking in another four kids. Another group of siblings. You'd think Jimmy has some kind of hero complex, but – well, you'll see when you meet him, he's not like that. Anyway, so there's Tiran with this house that was supposed to fit five kids, and at the last minute he finds out there's gonna be nine. So he has to, like, double the size of this house. That's why it's so funny looking."

Phillip stopped, and we both glanced back at the large, eccentric building. It did kind of mar the pristine prettiness of the rest of the arrangement. Phillip shrugged. "But anyway – they like it," he finished.

We reached the rec centre and climbed up a couple of steps to the small porch at the front. The building was made of wood and logs, like an old-timey cottage, with a peaked, shingled roof. I found out later that the kids had helped design it, and that's the look they wanted. Phillip pulled open the light screen door and we went inside.

I found myself in a big, open, single-level space, sort of like a loft, with a high raftered log ceiling. It had a warm yellow glow from the honey-coloured wood floors and walls, and large windows. A few broad wooden posts dotted around the room divided it into different areas. I could see one corner with a large screen and lots of sofa space; an area set up for virtual gaming; some larger table games on one side, including a pool table; a kind of bench covered with various projects in one corner; an open space with toys for the younger kids.

I'd expected a lot of luxury in my new life – you could say that's what I was there for. Not much had surprised me so far. But as I looked around that space, I couldn't help calculating the time, money, effort spent on a place for a handful of rich kids to play in. I remembered the barren, waste-strewn rooms I'd shared back home, the old car parts Dodge and I had scrounged up to use as weights. Then I thought about the gym next door to my bedroom and I felt my face grow a little hot. Most times I can keep my body neutral whatever I'm thinking, but on this occasion I know it showed.

Rocky's words from last night ricocheted around in my mind and a wave of bile welled up into my throat. _Lucky_. _Spread that feeling around_. These kids were lucky all right. Why them? They didn't even seem especially fucked up. Why them – why _us_ – and not the thousands or millions of other kids who would go through their whole lives never seeing anything remotely like this?

The twins, already inside, called out excitedly from different parts of the room, trying to show me their favourite toys. From outside I could hear faint voices coming toward us, and beside me I saw Phillip watching my reaction.

"Tom … ?" Phillip said, sounding worried.

I only had a moment or two to pull myself together so I swallowed down the nausea and went over to one of the twins – Craig or Bruce, I couldn't tell them apart at that time. I made a half-hearted effort to show some interest in his game until, a few seconds later, I heard a crescendo of voices and a clatter of footsteps on the porch outside and looked up in time to see a burst of strangers pile into the room.

There had to be four or five of them, boys ranging from kids to teens, with Curtis in behind them. At first they seemed like one homogeneous mass to me – tall, noisy, confident, _entitled_. Dressed like the kids I'd seen in ads.

Phillip came up beside me. "Hey, guys," he began warily, putting a hand lightly on my forearm as though to calm me.

I shook him off irritably. Jesus, did he think I needed his help? I took a couple of strides forward and then stopped to face the crowd. "I'm Tom."

In retrospect I realize I probably came across as more aggressive than I meant to. I'd aimed for unfazed, but I might have hit challenging instead. The kid at the front of the group looked startled and actually took a step back. "Uh –"

That's when one of the other boys stepped up – an older teenager, tall and affable, with an open look and easy smile. "Hi Tom," he said, putting out his hand, "I'm Barry."

I didn't smile back but I took his hand; he gave a quick, firm press, no fancy stuff. I found myself slightly soothed, and looked the boy over briefly; he had shaggy, burnished brown hair, bright eyes, a narrow chin and well-defined jaw line, all of it combining to give him a kind of candid, fearless expression.

"These are my brothers," he said, gesturing behind him, "Lance, who I think you just scared the shit out of, Steve over there … "

"Did not," Lance said, giving Barry a shove.

"… and that's Randall. There's more, but they're still getting dressed," Barry finished, then grinned at me as he spoke an aside to Lance. "Sure he didn't. Not that I blame Lance," he added to me. "We've heard enough about you, Tom. Don't worry, no one's gonna mess with you."

I couldn't tell if he meant that for real, but he spoke with a sort of frank good-humour that made it hard to be offended.

"I don't know what – " I started to say.

But Barry just laughed and gave my arm a friendly squeeze as he walked by me into the room. "Sorry, man."

Lance, recovered now and looking vaguely cordial, followed his older brother's lead and stepped up with his hand out. "Hey, Tom, it's cool."

So I stood there and waited as each of them came up to me with some kind of greeting. I couldn't have told the kids apart at the time, but I did notice that Lance seemed to be about my age, while Barry might have been a year or two older. The others looked younger, and one of them gravitated over to Phillip as though they were used to hanging out together.

The greeting ritual gave me chance to settle again. I could see that, whatever they really thought, these kids didn't intend to start anything with me upfront, so antagonism would be pointless. I toned it down a couple of notches.

By the time I'd finished meeting everyone, people had moved into little groups to start games or talk or whatever, and the room had filled with general chatter and noise. I saw Phillip watching me, but I didn't look back.

"So … when did you get here?" Barry asked, strolling back up to me when I was free.

"Couple days ago," I answered, matching his tone.

"Thursday," Phillip put in.

"And have they been dragging you around all over the estate, making you meet everyone?" Barry asked with a sympathetic eye-roll.

I shrugged. "Some. Not too much yet."

"You guys are the worst, actually," Phillip said to Barry. "How's he supposed to keep track of all of you?"

"Aw, we're easy. He can just call us all Hawkins."

One of the twins came over to us then, trying to pull me back to the game he'd been showing me earlier. For a second I thought I'd be embarrassed at hanging around with a nine-year-old, but Barry, surprising me, agreed amiably and went straight over to enter into the kid's game. It made me easy to join them.

After we'd humoured the kid for a couple of minutes, a few of the others came over to join in, and Barry gave me a friendly nudge and led me away. I followed him to the pool table where Lance and one of the younger brothers, Steve, had started a game.

Lance paused as soon as he saw me and offered me his cue. "You wanna play?"

I shook my head. "Maybe in a bit."

Barry leaned against the back of a couch beside me and we watched for a minute in a silence that was almost companionable.

Once, after Steve missed an obvious shot, Barry called out to him impatiently. "C'mon bro, you're embarrassing me here! We're not all complete fuck-ups," he added to me, sort of apologetically, while his brother replied with a raised middle finger.

"I'm not so good at pool," I said, to temper expectations.

"Yeah, me either. So are you gonna be going to school with us, then?"

"Dunno yet." I shrugged. "Have to go for tests next week."

Barry nodded. "Yeah, brutal. Fuck, they're probably gonna send you to counsellors, therapists, all that shit. You remember that, Fergie?"

"Yeah." Phillip had been talking with one of the Hawkins kids, but he paused and looked over at us. "They keep asking you all these questions trying to figure out how fucked up you are, so they can fuck you up even more."

We all cracked a smile at that; I'd seen enough during the process to know what he meant.

"I was too young to remember all that stuff," Barry said, "when we first came. But I saw it with the others."

Around that time another group of kids arrived, three younger boys and a girl, and Barry pointed them all out to me. One of the boys was from a totally different family.

"Pasha St. Vincente," Barry explained. "You might have met his folks already?"

Pasha seemed about Phillip's age, but much more reserved and less confident.

"No," Phillip said, before I could answer. "He hasn't met Dusty and Karen yet. They live next door to us," he added, to me. "You'll see them soon."

"How many … who all uses this place?" I asked.

"The rec centre? Oh … well, all of us," Barry said, frowning a bit with concentration, "I mean, us, you guys, Pasha. That's like … fifteen of us now? And some of the workers who live on the estate have kids so they'll come by here too."

When Lance and Steve finished their game, Barry and I joined in for a laid-back doubles round. I could hold my own easily enough with them, but I didn't overdo it. After that Lance wanted to show me some of their fancy screen-based sim games which of course I'd never seen before, so mostly I just watched as he and Steve played. I didn't really see the appeal.

Barry seemed to move around the room, spending a few minutes here and there with different groups of kids, occasionally sorting out fights or keeping peace, helping out the smaller ones or entertaining them. Every now and again he'd pause beside me with some easy comment or question, steering clear of anything too personal.

Maybe he noticed the gaming bored me, because he eventually invited me to check out what he called _their_ beach. This turned out to be a public beach just outside the estate perimeter where all the local kids hung out and often partied at night. I didn't swim, of course, but I liked watching the ocean – the high rolling waves and glistening spray, the little figures riding or sailing or clutching their boards, gliding over the surf or tumbling under it.

Back at the Hawkins house for lunch I met their dad, Jimmy, who looked pretty much like you'd expect for a single father of nine: harried, resigned, a bit hyper. After the younger kids drifted off, the rest of us sat around talking and exchanging stories all afternoon, which gave me more ideas of what to expect at school and around the estate.

The other kids asked me a few questions, mostly trying to compare experiences and opinions. I'm not sure they realized as quickly as I did that we really had nothing to compare. The Hawkins boys had been adopted too, but at a much younger age than me or even Phillip. And the language thing hit me again – a lot of the time I had no idea what they were talking about. I listened as usual, trying to pick up more without saying too much myself, but the language gap made it hard to gather a lot.

We stayed until it started to get dusky, and then Phillip mentioned that our parents expected us for dinner. Curtis and the twins had already headed back, so we said our good-byes and set off back along the path to our house.

As we walked back, Phillip glanced at me a couple of times, like he wondered what I thought of everything, but he didn't ask and I didn't volunteer.

"Hey," he said after a bit, "sorry I forgot to tell you to pick up a swim suit yesterday."

"A what?"

"Swim suit. You know, for swimming."

"Oh." I remembered the clothes some of the kids had been wearing on the beach; it hadn't occurred to me those were special outfits. Thinking back to everyone I'd seen that day, I realized I'd fit in well enough. The clothes Phillip had picked out for me seemed to work okay.

Then I remembered something else. "Hey. How come people call you Fergie? Where does that come from?"

"Oh – Ferguson. My last name."

"What? I thought we're Van Mertzes."

"You are, and the others are. I kept my own name." He looked ahead without expression, not uncomfortable but not saying a whole lot either.

"How come?" I asked after a moment.

He shot a glance at me. "It's my name. My parents' name. I was seven when they died; I remember them. Why should I change it?"

I waited a minute to see if he'd say anything else, but he didn't. To be honest, I was a bit curious about his background but since he didn't offer, and I didn't particularly want to get into mine, it seemed best to let it go.

At first as we walked I'd been able to see the water on my right, but now a thick clump of trees or bushes obscured the view. "What's that?" I asked, mostly to change the subject.

Phillip looked over. "It's just a little grove of trees. There's a few paths that go through it … if you follow them you can get to the water, but it's a little rocky there. Nice place to go when you want to be alone."

It was only about a five minute walk back from the rec centre if you went straight, I realized. We'd taken a really round-about route that morning. The horizon opened up again as the path followed the shoreline back to Tiran's mansion, but we took a little branch that led into our own back yard, where the table was already set for dinner and the other kids were waiting.

That night no one else joined us and it seemed oddly laid back and peaceful. Just me, my four brothers and our parents.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning Pat cornered me right after breakfast. He asked if we could talk and when I agreed he took me outside, down a path along the shore towards Tiran's beach.

"So we hardly saw you yesterday," he said conversationally as we walked. "Everything go okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "Fine."

"I know it must all seem … different," Pat said again, very gently.

I found his delicacy a bit funny. "Different, yeah," I agreed, trying not to sound sarcastic. "Better. Hey, that gym at home – thanks."

"Oh – that was Phillip."

"Phillip?"

"Yeah, his idea," Pat said, hardly listening. "He said you'd like it. So, you met all the Hawkins kids yesterday, right? I hope they were all friendly to you."

I was still wondering about Phillip. _His idea_? "Yeah," I said.

"They're good kids, I think … but if you have any trouble with them, please let me know."

"Okay." I tried not to laugh. "Sure."

Pat led me down a side path along a little rocky slope toward the water, and paused at a flat ledge part way down. "This okay with you?"

I glanced around. It was an isolated spot, with a good vantage up and down, so you couldn't be surprised by anyone showing up unseen. "Sure."

We sat down on the ledge, Pat leaning back against the rock slope, and me with my knees drawn up, looking out over the water.

"So … here's the thing, Tom," Pat began after a minute. "I realize I, uh – I was probably acting a bit strange the other night. When Tiran came over."

So that's what this was about. I nodded, wondering how much he'd tell me. "Yeah."

"You noticed." He said it like a statement, but then looked at me like it was a question.

I shrugged. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, turning away. "I totally should have prepared you beforehand. In fact I – maybe we should have told you more before you even agreed to come here. I mean, we ... we didn't want to make you uncomfortable and it really doesn't have anything to do with you, but – we probably should have made sure you knew what you were getting into before we asked you to trust us like this. Anyway, I'm really sorry."

Again I had that sense of a price about to be named, a debt being called in. I waited, not looking at him, bracing myself.

"So … " Pat seemed to struggle for a second, trying to figure out where to start. "You know how … some people have different, um, personal tastes or-or preferences, right? And we all need to, you know … be open and accepting about everyone's, um, kinks. Yeah?"

I managed to keep a straight face, although this was starting to sound like some kind of birds-and-bees talks. But I knew what he meant. The big movement in recent years had been all about _owning our kinks_ , _kink rights_ , _shame-free play_. Nowadays people spoke openly about their fetishes, and common interests like bondage, poly, and D/s had become standard fare in mainstream society. All of which had seemed like so much middle-class flakiness to me. Where I came from, the strong took what they wanted from the weak and no one would dare to question their tastes. I realized things might not be so simple for these people though, so I tried to sound polite. "Yeah. Sure."

He shot me a quick glance. "Well … Tiran's a Dom. I mean, you've probably noticed that. It's kind of obvious."

I hadn't, particularly, but only because I hadn't thought about him that much. It seemed to me this whole conversation was making a mountain out of molehill. So they were into D/s; did he think I cared? Unless it had something to do with me.

"He has a number of subs," Pat went on slowly. "Not everyone who lives here belongs to him that way but, you know, a lot of us do."

"Okay." I heard the " _us"_ but I tried to wait patiently for him to get to the point.

To my surprise, he veered off in a slightly different direction. "But that's not exactly what this is about. I mean I'm telling you because you'll see it with other people as well. If someone seems to act strangely around Tiran, it's likely because of that. We probably should have warned you ahead of time. In case, you know, you're uncomfortable with it."

He looked at me closely, and I frowned a little and shrugged. "No. I don't care."

"Okay. I'm glad. So – so that's the first thing." He chewed at his lip a little, uneasily. "But it's not that simple with me. I mean, I guess I've always been a sub, and I've belonged to Tiran for a long time but … it's more than that with me. I've made a lot of mistakes, and I owe him. I … " Pat kind of trailed away for a minute, staring off at the ocean below us, then gave me another of those quick nervous glances. "The thing is, I'm an addict. I have been for a long time, and … I don't know if you know much about addiction, Tommy?"

I resisted the temptation to say something sarcastic. "Yeah," I said after a pause; at first I thought he was asking rhetorically. "A little."

"Oh, right," he said, like it suddenly occurred to him I might have had my own experiences. "Although I think … I mean, I guess it's a little different for us. Anyway, I got away with it for a long time. I guess people knew, but no one really stopped me. So I had time to do a lot of damage. Mostly to Dell and my family, at first. And Tiran, he's been my big brother's best friend since before I was born so he's always been around. I'd say he was my friend too, but there was a lot of strain on our relationship around that time."

It seemed like a strange world to me, where the biggest problem with addiction was hurting your friends. But I kept my mouth shut and waited for Pat to finish his story.

"Then we moved here, to Tiran's estate and … I mean, it's a bigger world so I could do more damage. You know, Tiran set us up here, he made it possible for Dell and I to adopt Phillip and the others and I … betrayed his trust in a lot of ways over those years."

Tiran must be less shrewd than I'd figured, I thought, if he put any trust in an addict.

"The thing about Tiran," Pat said, as though maybe he saw my cynicism, "is that he has a slow-burning fuse. So for a long time he just put up with it all. Until one day he didn't anymore, and that's when he kicked me out. And then I realized if I left here, Adele and the kids wouldn't come with me."

Pat kept staring out into the distance for a minute, and then he turned to me with that raw, open look I was starting to recognize, the one that seemed to show everything inside him. "I would have done anything then. I mean, there wouldn't be a lot left of me if I'd gone." I saw his chest heave briefly. "Anyway, it took a lot of work – a _lot_ of work – but Ti eventually let me stay. Only things are very different now. There's some rules I have to follow, and Tiran keeps a really tight rein on me. Which is good, it's good for me, I'm grateful to him. But it's also really scary because he's made it clear I don't get any more chances. The next mistake I make, it's all over; there's not going to be any more negotiation."

He paused and turned toward me, lifting his hands helplessly. "So I'm sorry if it's awkward for you, Tommy, but I just … I'm just really worried a lot of the time. I don't have any margin for error anymore."

This time he seemed to be finished. I waited for a bit, then glanced at him. "What about the addiction?"

"Oh," he half-laughed ruefully. "I think I just didn't have any room left for other habits after that. I mean, I went through treatment and all. But so much of my energy is focused on Tiran now, and following his rules. That's kind of like my new obsession."

I thought of the way Pat seemed to change completely around Tiran and wondered if he thought the new obsession was a good thing. Well, at least I had my answer now, and the rest wasn't my problem.

I looked up again to see Pat watching me. "How about it, Tommy?" he asked, suddenly sort of shy. "I know this is a lot to spring on you. We should have told you before."

I shrugged. "It's okay," I said. "Doesn't bother me."

"Really?" He sounded hopeful, smiling anxiously. "It doesn't make you lose all respect for me?"

"No." I heard a voice, a phrase in my head from long ago. "There's no shame in it," I added.

I could see Pat sink back against the cliff wall, like the relief made him weak, and then he leaned forward and squeezed my hand. "Thanks," he said.

We sat for a couple of minutes in silence. Eventually Pat gave me a sideways look. "So … is there anything else I should tell you? Anything you want to know?"

I had a bunch of questions, though I didn't know if I wanted to cover all of them right now. One thing really bothered me. "When?" I asked sharply. "When did all this happen, you and Tiran?"

He nodded, like he understood. "It was just before we finished adopting Curtis. That was two years ago. We almost stopped that process, but once we had a chance to talk to Tiran about it, he said we should keep going. He's been totally supportive about all the adoptions."

The thought popped into my head and out of my mouth almost at the same time. "Was that why I had to meet him? Did you need his _permission_ to bring me here?"

Pat shook his head slowly. "No, Tom. It's not like that. You met Tiran because … You know he's a human lie detector. It's like a superpower, like a magical power."

I turned away to hide my sceptical expression. I'd heard that before; apparently I was the only one who hadn't fallen for it.

"So he always meets the kids right at the end. Just as an extra safeguard, to find out if we've missed anything. It's not like he makes the final decision; he just gives us his advice." He looked at me intently. "Okay?"

"Sure." Another thought occurred to me. "And Adele? Does she owe him too?"

"No." Pat grimaced a little, searching for words. "I mean, yes, she belongs to him too. But not like I do. _Because_ of me. Well, and for her own reasons. But not because she made mistakes like I did. It's a lot different for her."

That was confused, but I didn't really want to know any more. "Okay."

Another pause, then Pat said, "Anything else?"

I didn't want to ask, but it would be stupid not to. "So what does it mean for me? Us, the kids? Do we owe him too?"

" _No_." Pat shook his head emphatically. "It has nothing to do with you, any of you. It's between me and Tiran. I wouldn't even have told you if I wasn't so awkward about it. But it's totally my issue and my responsibility. You guys owe nothing to Tiran."

I looked out at the ocean. I could see Tiran's beach over to the left a little, and the wooded area I'd asked Phillip about last night on my right. I thought of our huge house, the gym next door to my room, the rec centre a couple hundred yards away. The meeting at the consultants' offices; Tiran's _advice_.

"Okay," I said. "Sure."

 

******

 

On our way back, Pat asked if I'd met our neighbours yet. When I said I hadn't, he asked tentatively if I wanted to drop by now. I figured I might as well get it over with, so I agreed.

"You may recognize Dusty," Pat said, as we walked towards the house beside ours. "He's been in a few movies … "

" _Wait_." I stopped abruptly. The names I'd heard yesterday suddenly fit together. "Wait. Dusty _St. Vincente_? _Dusty_ St. Vincente?"

Pat looked a little amused. "Yeah. You've seen him?"

Of course I hadn't seen him; I didn't go to movies. But I'd heard of him. He was a big-name actor. Not a huge celebrity, maybe, but in the media often enough. "No," I said, "I mean, I know the name."

"Oh." Pat started walking again. "Well, he's a regular guy. You'll see. He has a son around Phillip's age … "

"Yeah. Pasha. I met him."

When we reached the house, Pat didn't knock or anything, just went around to the back deck, calling. Dusty came out and greeted us very congenially. I didn't find him quite as regular as Pat had suggested; not movie-star handsome, exactly, but attractive, with a kind of confidence and presence that ordinary people don't have.

He introduced us to his wife, Karen, and their friend Blackie, who lived in the third house in our group of three, on the other side of Dusty. Blackie looked boyish and friendly, while Karen actually seemed a bit intimidating – polished and professional and a bit glamorous.

Dusty offered us sodas, and everyone sat down to socialize for a while, which appeared to be what these people spent most of their time doing. They asked the usual questions about how I was settling in, what I'd done, who I'd met so far.

When someone mentioned Tiran's name, Dusty spoke up directly. "Tiran's my top," he said to me. "I sub for him; that's why I'm here. Just so you know." He gave me a disarming smile, then turned to Pat a bit guiltily. "Um, you have mentioned that part to Tom, right?"

Pat glanced at me. "Yeah. We were just talking about it, actually."

On the sofa beside Dusty, Blackie stirred a little. "Me too," he said. "I mean, we're kind of a package deal, Dusty and me. So, you know, I sub for Tiran too."

I really didn't see why everyone wanted me to know this. "Okay," I said, shrugging.

Pat laughed. "Sorry, you guys, he's too post-hip to care."

Meanwhile, Karen had poured herself a real drink, and she stood over by the bar in her well-fitting designer suit that probably cost a lot of money. "Well, just for the record," she said, and everyone stopped talking and listened to her when she spoke, "I don't sub for anyone." She smiled, and the men laughed like that was a bit of an in-joke.

We didn't stay long. Pat told them he just wanted me to meet our neighbours, and Dusty made a few polite comments about how happy Pasha had been to see me yesterday. Then we made our escape.

As we headed back to our house, Pat checked the time anxiously. "I'm gonna have to run now, Tommy," he said, picking up his pace and already starting to look a little worried. "I have a shift at Tiran's. I'll be back later."

That was the first time I heard about shifts. I learned gradually that all of Tiran's subs took turns being "on duty" with him, as they called it, so he had someone to provide service around the clock. Of course the idea of service was familiar to me, so I didn't need to have that explained. Strange how some things were so different here, and others were just the same.

 

******

 

A few days later Adele took me to my appointment with the 'educational assessors', which turned out to be a bit of a disaster.

At first they wanted me to do their tests on a screen. They put me in a little office and told me to follow the instructions in front of me, then left. When I went to get started, I realized everything used text – letters and words. I'd been expecting audio. I had to wait for a woman to come back in, and then point out to her that I didn't read. Honestly, in that day and age writing seemed obsolete to me, and I really hadn't found my lack of it to be much of a limitation so far. But it seemed like a big deal to these people.

They pulled me out of the little office and held whispered consultations with each other and made little notes on their devices and seemed at a bit of a loss. I saw that Adele looked annoyed and heard one of the consultants say to her, "Well, that's just the way we've always _done_ it … "

While I waited for them to sort it out, I sat in a little waiting area, empty except for a girl around my age. We kind of eyed each other for a minute and then she asked what I was there for.

"To get assessed, I guess," I said with a shrug. "So they know where to put me at school. You?"

"Same," she said, still looking me over. "I'm new to the country so they need to figure out how my old school matches up with theirs. Where did you go to school before?"

"Nowhere." I didn't offer anything else. She seemed friendly enough but I had no interest in getting into it with a stranger.

"Oh." Unfazed, she grinned at me and added, "Hey, nice outfit. Very fashion forward."

I glanced down at the shirt and pants Phillip had picked out for me, and then back at her. She lifted the old-school magazine she'd been looking at to show me a picture of some young celebrity wearing a very similar outfit.

"Styling," she said, approvingly.

That's when the consultant came out to get me so I gave the girl a nod and followed the woman back to her office, where Adele and a couple of other people waited. They explained that they would give me a literacy test first, and then do the rest of the assessments through interviews. Adele took me aside for a minute to ask if I was comfortable with the new approach and I shrugged and agreed. She probably thought I felt bad for not knowing how to read. I didn't.

I could have saved them some time with the literacy test but they didn't ask so I let them find out for themselves that I knew nothing – I didn't even recognize the letters in the alphabet or know their names. It made for a short test.

After that, one or two people at a time sat in a room with me and started asking a bunch of questions. I wasn't trying to be difficult, but we ran into more problems almost right away because I didn't understand half of what they said. That actually surprised even me – I'd thought my communication issues mostly related to people using slang and private references, but now I realized that a lot of real words were completely foreign to me as well. I just didn't have the same vocabulary as people here. The consultants had to keep breaking things down and trying to find different ways to explain things to me.

I guess we established that I did have some skills – like, I could do basic math easily enough, and when they showed me pictures of mechanical things I had no trouble figuring out how they worked. But as far as anything that required talking or understanding, or discussing abstract ideas, we were miles apart.

Finally they asked me to go back to the little sitting area again while they talked to Adele, but the girl was gone by then. I flipped through hard-copy magazines – this place was really stuck in the past – looking at pictures while I waited.

When Adele came out she had a kind of grim expression, and didn't tell me anything right away – just asked if I wanted to go and get some lunch. The whole thing had taken a few hours so I did.

In the car, as she drove us to a restaurant nearby, Adele ranted angrily about the assessment company, calling them old-fashioned, unprepared, unprofessional. I asked if the other boys had gone to the same company and she kind of quieted down a bit and said, "Yes." So I figured that made me the first one who couldn't read at all.

When we'd settled in and ordered at the restaurant, Adele calmed down. She told me that the company thought I should start with some direct, one-on-one coaching for a while – a year or two, she thought – before I got officially placed in a class.

"What grade would I get put into then?" I asked.

"They think you might be able to start around sixth grade. After the coaching."

I knew kids normally started school around five years old. After a quick mental calculation, I asked, "So that's when kids would usually be eleven?"

Adele looked down, spreading her napkin over her lap. "Around that."

"And I'd be ready to start there when I'm, maybe, sixteen?"

"Something like that. I mean, it all depends on how things go, of course."

I thought about it. "What grade does school actually go up to?"

"Well, high school goes to twelfth grade. After that there's college or whatever. If … if you choose to go."

I had a feeling she wanted to moderate my expectations. I did some more math. "So I'd finish high school – what? In my twenties?"

"Tom." Adele folded her hands on the table and looked at me earnestly. "There's no point thinking about that, really, is there? Let's just get you started and see how it goes."

That was fine with me. I didn't plan to be here long enough to even get put in a class, did I? "Okay," I said, shrugging.

Our food came and we moved on to talk about other things. As Barry and Phillip had predicted, Adele said she wanted me to start seeing a couple of 'therapists' next week. She also told me, somewhat apologetically, that I'd need to meet regularly with a social worker.

"The thing is, you're underage, so they're going to be watching us pretty carefully for the first little while," she explained. "It's not nearly as bad now as it was, you know, when Gabe was first adopted. Or even for us back at the beginning, with Phillip. But they'll still want to check in on you and make sure everything's okay. That we're not abusing you." She gave me a little smile. "I mean, unless you think we are, of course. It'll be your opportunity to raise any concerns that you're not comfortable bringing to us. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, mulling that over.

We ate in silence for a few minutes while I wondered if I could turn this to my profit. Then Adele spoke again, hesitantly. "The thing is, Tom … you know, Social Services could still take you away from us. If they think you're at risk for _any_ reason." She looked at me closely. "They'll want to keep testing you, for chemicals at least. That would probably be enough reason to remove you, if you tested positive. Alcohol … well, it's illegal but we could probably ride out one positive. If it's regular, they could make a case. Anything illegal, really. Any kind of arrest or trouble. Fights, stealing, not showing up for school … anything like that could impact your custody."

When she paused, I spoke up to fill the gap. "But I won't be at school. I mean, not right away. You said I'm going to be coached."

"Oh, they'll do that at school. You just won't be in a regular classroom. They'll try to make things as normal as possible for you in other ways. So you'll have recess, lunch with the other kids, that kind of thing."

"Oh."

She leaned forward abruptly and put a hand on my wrist. "Tom. Listen. I'm trying to say … I mean, we don't really understand all of your … life experiences. I know you haven't had the same kind of childhood as other kids – if you even had a childhood at all. We understand that. We know you're, you know … in a bit of a different place from the others."

I noticed that Pat and Adele both had the same funny, delicate way of referring to my past. I wasn't sure how much either of them actually knew about my life before they met me. They never asked, and even the consultants had avoided probing too far. In fact, the only one who had ever asked outright about my history was Tiran, during that one interview. I'm sure the professionals had a pretty good idea of my role in the business and what it meant, but what did they care? They must have said something to my parents, since it would have been foolhardy not to warn them I could be dangerous. But no one wanted the sordid details.

Now I saw both Pat and Adele allude to my previous life very carefully. It's like they didn't want to let on they had any idea of what I'd done back then. And if they did, they didn't want to imply any kind of judgement.

"So we want to give you your space," Adele went on, frowning a little with concentration. "I mean, as we understand it, you've basically been responsible for yourself up till now. So for us to come in and try to act like traditional parents telling you what you can or can't do … we can't see how that would work. I think we may have to let you be responsible for yourself, and provide support where we can."

That sounded good to me. Hard to believe anyone else would think so, but I wasn't about to argue.

"But the thing is – " Adele went on, looking at me more sharply now, "There's still a good chance we could lose you, if you don't play by the rules. They're not our rules, and I'm not even saying we agree with them. But the social workers – the state – they still have a lot of control over us as long as you're underage. And they have their own ways of judging whether it's working or not. So if you want to stay with us, you'll have to live up to their standards. I mean, we'll do what we can too but at the end of the day … you're the one who has to decide whether you want this enough to live within their rules. It's really up to you."

While she talked, I looked away, across the room. This was new; it hadn't occurred to me that even now I didn't have a sure thing. That I might be forced to leave before I was ready. It's like I needed to keep balancing the two sides – to be able stay as long as I wanted but at the same time be free to leave when I chose. The whole thing started to look a little trickier than I had expected.


	8. Chapter 8

As we finished our meal at the restaurant that day, we moved on to other subjects. Adele told me more about the school, when it started, how it worked, who went there. Apparently the kids from the estate plus some of the workers' kids made up a good portion of the school population. She talked a bit about how the other kids had adjusted and how long it took for them to catch up, though I think we both realized that my situation couldn't really be compared to theirs.

After lunch, as we drove home, Adele had one more surprise for me. "Tom, I forgot to tell you … Pat and I were talking, and we think you'll need an allowance."

"A what?"

"An allowance. A bit of money we give you each week so you can pay for some things yourself."

"Like what?" I asked blankly. "School?"

"No!" She laughed.

I paused, trying to figure it out. "Clothes?"

"Oh, right, you need some more clothes, don't you? Shall we stop somewhere? But no, that's not exactly what an allowance is for. Especially not right now, when you have nothing. It's our job to make sure you have everything you need. But, I mean, if there's some super expensive designer thing you want purely for status … you might need to manage that yourself. You know what I mean?"

"Sort of," I said, doubtfully. It seemed like a trick. "What else would I have to pay for?"

"Anything you want to do that you don't want to tell us about, for one thing." She smiled slightly. "Or if we're just not around. You know, if you want to go out with your friends, pay cover fees, eat out … maybe take a cab home … or if you just want to buy something for yourself without asking us about it … "

I thought back to the little figures on the boards, out in the ocean at the kids' beach. I'd been back to the beach a couple of times since that first visit, and I still had a curious feeling about the boards. "So, say, if I wanted to try that sail boarding thing … "

She glanced over at me, then back at the road. "Really? Sure, if you're interested, we can help you out with that. I don't think you'd need to use your allowance. It's normal for a kid to have an interest or take some lessons."

I sat quietly for a couple of minutes, absorbing this. I wanted to know how much they had in mind for an allowance – what kind of scale we were talking about – but I didn't want to ask. Adele seemed to figure it out though. She gave me another sideways smile and named an amount, asking if I thought it sounded reasonable. Of course I had no way of knowing that so I just shrugged.

As we drove on, I stopped listening and started doing mental calculations. If she really meant what she said, a month's worth of allowance would buy me a transit ticket to pretty much anywhere in the country. But it wouldn't be enough to set me up in a business or anything once I got out. I'd need to save for quite a while – or find another source of revenue – if I wanted a realistic plan for my future.

Still, I couldn't help getting excited at the prospect of cash in my pocket. Being free to leave whenever I wanted appealed to me; a small voice told me I should take the first sure thing and get on out of there. But in another part of my mind I wondered if I really needed to act so fast. It's not like conditions were intolerable here. Not yet, anyway. If what Adele said was true, the money would be coming in regularly. Why not ride it out, wait and see what other opportunities might come my way?

After a few minutes I settled on a strategy: I'd put the first month's payments away somewhere safe – so that I'd always have a ticket out if I wanted it. Then I could use any further funds in different ways, save some and spend some, while I watched and waited to see how things went.

When I'd reached this conclusion, I tuned back in to Adele again. She was saying something like, " … it's the right amount. You won't have too many needs, I hope, but this will you give you a little bit of … _freedom_." She lingered slightly over the last word with that odd delicacy again, as though she meant something she didn't want to say outright. I felt a sudden, strange chill: did she _want_ me to leave? Then I decided that wouldn't make sense, and I thought about that balance thing again: freedom to leave vs freedom to stay.

"Anyway," Adele said, moving on again. "I know you need more clothes. Do you want to go shopping now?"

I had a fleeting memory of the girl in the waiting room, and the picture in the magazine. "Not yet," I said after a moment. "Let's get Phillip first."

 

******

 

That evening, after supper, I sat outside with my parents and Phillip, while the younger kids went downstairs to play. Phillip asked about who I'd met so far and when I mentioned Dusty, Karen and Blackie, the conversation turned to the network of relationships on the estate. I saw Phillip shoot Pat a questioning, raised-eyebrow look and interpreted it correctly.

"Yeah," I said, "He told me about him and Tiran."

Phillip laughed. "You must think you've stumbled into some nest of sex freaks here."

I shrugged. "Whatever. It's no big deal these days."

Pat patted my hand. "I know, Tommy," he said. "It was different when we were young."

"We know," Phillip said, rolling his eyes a little. "You guys were _pioneers_."

They were? I wasn't sure I wanted to know so I didn't ask, but I guess my expression showed enough curiosity to encourage Dell to explain.

"Phillip means that when we were your age," she began, "we had this system … "

Phillip and Pat kind of exchanged looks, and Phillip gave a mocking groan. "Oh no, is this the story about the benefits of forced servitude again?" he said to Adele.

"All right, Pip, I won't bore you … I just thought maybe Tom might be interested."

"Forced servitude?" I said. "I don't think I've heard that one." Of course I also didn't think there was much she could tell me on that subject that I didn't already know.

Dell gave Phillip a look. "Go on, Phillip. You tell it, since you know the story so well."

Phillip spoke quickly, with a kind of glib impatience. "When mom was like, our age, she and the other kids set up this system where younger kids got matched to older kids. I don't know where they got the idea …"

"It was when Blackie and the others were starting high school," Adele put in. "They were nervous about being freshmen at the big central school so we thought this could give them some support."

"Yeah, _support_ like a mini Dom/sub thing," Phillip said dryly. "Though back in the day no one talked about that in polite company, did they? They called it mentorship. The older kid was supposed to kind of protect the younger kid, but mostly they just kept 'em in line. Slapped the little ones around a bit when they got mouthy – "

Adele laughed. "Oh, come on, Phillip, we never did that. The majors were usually nice to the kids."

"The _major_ , that's what they called the older kids – the Doms. Some kind of militaristic terminology." Phillip still sounded mocking. "The sub was called a _batman_ , also an army thing. I'm not sure what the batman got out of the arrangement."

"Guidance," Dell put in with dignity. "Advice, a role model. Support, protection."

"Grounding," Phillip summarized, gesturing dismissively. "Dell thinks that's why they're all so well adjusted and grounded now."

I glanced at her curiously. "Which were you?"

"I was both," she said. "I had a major and a batman. Patty wasn't part of it at the time because he was older than us, but that's kind of how he got inherited by Tiran, eventually. Long story."

"Blackie was Dusty's batman," Phillip put in. "And Jimmy has a batman too – Vidge. You probably haven't met him yet, but he lives next door to the Hawkins and helps Jimmy out a lot. That's how all those things started."

"You know, I sometimes think – " Adele began. She shot Phillip a guilty look, and paused, as though waiting for him to stop her. But he just shook his head like he'd heard this so many times he was resigned to it now. "That it wouldn't hurt you kids to try something like it."

"Oh, please," Phillip said, on cue. "Like authoritarianism is the solution to every problem."

It was obviously an old debate. Pat sat it out, watching the two of them sort of affectionately and not taking a side.

Personally I thought their system sounded innocuous enough – typical play-acting from kids with a thing for D/s. If Adele and her friends had tasted unrestrained power in the way I had, she probably wouldn't be talking about it with such fondness now. I'd been both _batman_ and _major_ in my past, and I didn't look back on either one with nostalgia.

On the other hand, I had to admit I'd learned a lot from both roles. It's hard not to enjoy having another person at your command, but to be honest I'd also sometimes liked the safety and security of following rules. I had no desire right now either to be responsible for or responsible to any other person, but it crossed my mind to wonder how the other kids here would handle it. I could sort of see what Adele meant about how it might be good for them. Some of them seemed like they'd never had a moment of obligation in their lives.

A few minutes later, when Phillip went in, Pat and Adele handed over my first allowance installment. As I took the cash I found myself bracing again, waiting for the condition that would surely come with it. But no, there was no request for a quid pro quo; just Pat's usual restrained eagerness and a little speech about how he agreed with Adele that an allowance would be good for me.

After I'd retreated to my bedroom and bolted the doors and windows again I counted the money, which was exactly what Adele had suggested. I tucked it carefully under my mattress. Then I left a message for Dodge that I might have work for him soon.

 

******

 

The days passed by. I continued getting used to things. The house gradually came to seem normal sized; spending my days at the beach or the games room or in the gym almost started to make sense.

I grew more comfortable hanging out with the other kids, though I still spent a lot of time alone or just with Phillip. I did meet all the other adults living in the two groups of houses eventually, but I didn't have a lot of interaction with most of them. As Barry had said, a few other workers lived on the estate as well; mainly field labourers, who shared dormitory-style buildings at the back of the property, where the big fields and gardens were, and who often didn't stay long. Their kids were officially welcome at the rec centre so I met them there, generally four or five of them around our age at any time. I noticed the Hawkins kids kept a kind of distance from what they called the _workers' kids_ , which made me wonder a little. Wasn't Jimmy a worker too? The difference seemed to be that he was Tiran's friend as well as employee. Anyway, I didn't care enough to make any distinctions, but because of the high turnover rate I rarely got to know any of the other workers' kids very well.

My bedroom felt safe, and with the gym next door it was often all I needed. I had screens and network access, and I could play games or talk to people if I wanted to, but I actually spent more time researching. When I came across something unfamiliar or strange – which happened regularly in this new world – I often wanted to look for more details about it. I didn't like being confused or ignorant; it put me at a disadvantage at a time when I still needed to figure out how to make this thing work for me. Surprisingly, a lot of information was still only available as text so I had to rely on text-to-speech reading programs, which got tedious. After a while I discovered that watching vids, especially older, reality-based movies, allowed me to soak things up in a more natural way, so I got into that habit. It was kind of like immersing myself in the mainstream life I'd missed out on earlier.

Phillip would often come downstairs to visit. I didn't mind. Sometimes he'd work out alongside me in the gym or join me for movies in companionable silence. Other times he'd share news and gossip and sort of help me manage my social life – filling me in on who was who and how people got along, telling me about upcoming events, passing on invitations or suggestions, and even responding on my behalf. I didn't tell him a whole lot but he seemed to have an instinctive idea of what I'd be into or not. Of course the younger kids often clamoured for our attention, wanting us to play games or hang out with them. I humoured them occasionally, when I was up for it, and when I wasn't Phillip helped me get rid of them.

Pat and Adele made it clear they liked me to show up for meals, at least once a day or so, and I made an effort if only to avoid being hassled about it. But I found it a bit of a strain. It's not like I couldn't play happy families; it's more that I instinctively resisted the close confines and familiarity of regular family dinners. I didn't mind hanging out with a much larger group – like, say the Hawkins kids – but the connections there seemed much looser and it was easier to get lost in the crowd. At home, eating in the same place at the same time with the same set of people, I couldn't avoid a sort of growing intimacy. Which, I suppose, was kind of the point.

One thing I did like about meals was the food. I'd never thought much about eating back in the old days – back then I did it purely for sustenance. I might as well have been living on gruel or magic pills or something. Only now I realized that eating could be a pleasure in itself. My parents had staff to help manage the house and kids, but they did most of their own cooking and often talked about it while we ate, so I learned to recognize tastes and ingredients and even develop my own preferences.

Eventually I started to hang around the kitchen, mostly with Adele, helping to put meals together; I found the process soothing, and the results satisfying. We worked well together, and Adele happily shared what she knew. She took me around the gardens on the estate – from the herbs she grew in our back yard to the larger vegetable fields that supplied the estate, back behind the rec centre and along the drive in from the highway. I'd never seen anything like it.

Meanwhile, none of the adults had made any demands on me. I still expected them to, so I figured they must be waiting for me to settle in first. The allowance kept on coming; once a week, like clockwork, just like they said. It took a while but eventually I got over the instinct to hoard. I did take what I thought I'd need to get on transit and carried it with me every day. But that still left me with a substantial and growing pile of cash and eventually I started to think about what I wanted to do with it. Adele had said I'd use it when I went out with my friends, but I didn't leave the estate much. And I had more _things_ here than I knew what to do with; it was hard to even imagine wanting anything else.

I talked to Dodge once in a while and got updates on life in my old neighbourhood. Apparently Kip had kept hold of the leadership so far but he was still struggling with the debt I'd left behind. He sent a message through Dodge, asking me to pay back some or all of what I'd borrowed from the franchise. But I really didn't have a dog in that race – it didn't matter to me whether Kip kept control or not – so I declined.

On the other hand, I had a few lingering grudges against people who'd made life hard for me in the past. Not so much people in my own franchise – I'd never hesitated to deal with anyone under my control – but players in other locals or the corporate office, who I couldn't afford to alienate back then so I'd just had to suck up their insults or double-crosses. Now I had no such worries and nothing to lose. And I had resources: a week's allowance here was worth more than a life back on the block. Dodge had never been Kip's favourite and with his position weakened by my departure, he was desperate to earn a bit of extra cash. Of course, I had to make some pretence at paying off my old debts to him first, but I found I could keep him happy with a small instalment plus cash upfront for a new job. I didn't dwell on it, but I enjoyed the satisfaction of settling old scores vicariously.


	9. Chapter 9

When school started at the end of the summer, I went with the other kids. We actually took a mini version of one of those classic yellow school-buses to get there, which I found unbelievably hokey even for these people. The bus picked us up at the estate gates, so my brothers and I would generally meet up with the other kids by the garage and everyone would walk out to the gates together. Of course the adults all thought it was 'good for us' to have to walk and take a bus, while the Hawkins kids found it slightly outrageous. I didn't really have anything to compare it to so it didn't bother me.

The school we went to was small but other kids attended as well as those of us from the estate. On my second day there, I bumped into the girl from the assessment office. We stared at each other in surprise, then stopped to compare notes. Turns out she had been placed in the same school, though in a regular classroom, not in individual coaching like me. Her name was Jeannie and, both of us being new, we kind of gravitated together.

The coaching itself went okay. At first I spent most of my days in a small room with one or two different teachers. We focused mainly on language. They started with vocabulary, telling me about new words or the correct way to say something when I was used to something else. They also introduced me to concepts – words for things I'd never thought of or tried to articulate before, like _honesty_ or _frustration_. I still remember how odd it struck me, that someone had invented words for feelings or qualities. We didn't move on to things like correct grammar or sentence structure for several months.

The teachers didn't bother me and, like I said earlier, I'd noticed by then that I didn't understand a lot of what went on around me. I wanted to learn more, to catch the details and nuances that I might have been missing, so I didn't mind the coaching.

I took breaks, which I learned were called recesses, and lunch at the same time as the other kids did, so I'd meet up with Phillip and the Hawkins kids outside or in the café. They introduced me to some of their friends as well, and most of them were civil enough, if sometimes curious. But I saw again and again how my accent and language and background set me apart, and once in a while I caught some of the other kids exchanging little glances or smirks with each other when I spoke. I've never been a big talker but at school I learned to keep my mouth shut even more than usual. Anyway, making idle chit chat with kids whose biggest dilemma was whether to party at the beach or the Point that weekend didn't interest me much. Sometimes I'd hang out with Jeannie instead. She seemed a bit alienated from mainstream life as well.

Outside of school, I mostly stayed around the estate. I spent time at the games room and the beach, at the Hawkins house, or outside playing hoops or soccer or football. I picked up the sports games fairly quickly, watching them on screens with Lance and Steve, and then trying them out in person with the others. With so many kids on the estate we had built-in teams whenever we wanted a game. Even the adults – my dad, Uncle Paul or Uncle Rocky, Dusty or Blackie – often joined in. I watched closely but couldn't see any discomfort from the kids when they were around the older men.

Adele did set me up for sail boarding lessons and bought me the equipment. Of course I couldn't swim and that made it harder, but I liked being in the water. And I picked up a few other childhood basics, like riding a bike. I even got to the point where I could beat the Hawkins kids at some of their screen games once in a while, but I never really got into them too much. Lance and Steve seemed to find shoot 'em up scenarios endlessly entertaining but they kind of left me cold.

Phillip tended to be with me a lot, sort of by default, and the younger boys didn't really bother me or anything, but I spent most of my time, at least at first, with Lance and Steve Hawkins.

With Barry being a year older than me and Lance a year younger, I probably could have gone either way, but I leaned toward Lance at first because he seemed like the simpler and easier one to deal with. He was friendly enough, not a deep thinker, and apparently cared only about cars, games, music, parties and girls. He didn't have a lot of interest in my past, never asked questions, and didn't make much conversation beyond what we needed for the current activity. It all made spending time with him easy.

Steve, as the next youngest Hawkins brother, kind of paired up with Lance naturally, sort of like Phillip did with me. At first I found him taciturn, almost sullen, and it took me a while to realize that he wasn't actually as angry or resentful as he came across; he just didn't know how to change his expression very well. Playing games or whatever with Steve, I used to be surprised when he'd break out into a laugh or a big grin, until I grasped that his usual look didn't always reflect what was going on inside.

So anyway: Lance and Steve Hawkins, Phillip, me; that was the usual group I hung out with. Barry would often join us as well, which I didn't mind, but he had a way of keeping a foot in all camps – helping out with the younger kids, keeping an eye on the middle kids, visiting with the workers' kids, and actually talking to everyone. Unlike Lance and Steve, Barry didn't focus purely on entertainment; he had a natural interest in everything going on, a way of being everyone's confidante, and a kind of innate sense for interpersonal dynamics. Often he used his talents for good, like by sorting out squabbles or grievances, but it struck me that he really just liked to _know_. Like everyone else, I enjoyed Barry's company and found things more exciting when he was around. I couldn't help being a bit flattered when he wanted to spend time with me. He had good natural instincts for what to talk about, so I never found his conversation invasive or annoying. But even so, he had a kind of complexity and sophistication that made me slightly wary of him.

 

******

 

One day as we walked back from the beach to the games room, the Hawkins boys started talking about how we needed a better track and ramps for their go-karts. As the latest whim in their constant search for new thrills, they'd recently taken up racing karts – fast, powerful, aerodynamic karts, more like open wheel race cars than go-karts. Lance, who had pretensions of being some kind of race car jockey when he grew up, led the push and the adults had indulged us with a few models. Up till then we'd just been riding them around some of the bumpier paths on the estate, which wasn't very challenging and occasionally we almost knocked over people who were actually walking on the paths. When Lance and Steve first raised the idea of a dedicated track complete with ramps and inclines for extreme racing, I thought they were kidding. What, we didn't have enough toys?  Then the others joined in and starting plotting out what it would look like and how it could be designed. I listened sceptically until someone asked me what I thought. I shrugged at first, but Lance pushed so I eventually answered.

"Yeah, sure that'd be cool, but what are you gonna do about it?" I asked. "Build it with your allowance?"

Lance snorted. "Hardly. We'll get dad to put it in." I'd learned that Jimmy Hawkins was in charge of maintenance on the estate grounds; that was his job.

"Your dad's not gonna do that," Phillip said. "He doesn't have the money for it, and anyway, he's not gonna do it without asking Tiran."

"What does Tiran care?" Lance answered with spirit. "That space behind the rec centre is just sitting there empty."

"Didn't Boothsby use it for some kind of flower bed last year?" one of the other kids asked. Boothsby was the gardener.

"Whatever. He's not using it this year. Why shouldn't we do something with it?"

Phillip shrugged. "Fine. Go ahead, ask your dad."

"No," Barry said, stepping in the way he often did, the way that made everyone else stop talking and listen. "Pip's right, Tiran would have to agree."

"So we'll get dad to ask Tiran," Lance said.

"No. I will."

I glanced over at Barry. He looked resolute but unconcerned. It occurred to me that I didn't know how the Hawkins kids dealt with Tiran at all. We bumped into him occasionally while we were hanging around on the estate, and usually Tiran would just say a couple of vague words to us and go on his way, same as the other adults, who mostly left us alone. It seemed to me like a big jump from that to suggesting he should pay for an expensive new playground on his estate for the over-entitled kids of one of his workers. But Barry acted like it was no big deal.

A couple of days later we were out playing soccer on the big lawn between our place and the other group of houses when I saw Tiran standing on the sidelines. Like I said, we often saw him in passing, but this time he seemed to have paused to watch us play. I glanced around but no one else reacted so I ignored him and went back to the game. After a while I noticed Barry acting a bit different; maybe a little more self-conscious than usual. When the ball fell out of bounds on the side where Tiran stood and one of the little kids ran after it, Barry spoke up.

"Hey _Uncle Tiran_ ," he called, his tone somewhere between mocking and playful. "Wanna join us?"

Tiran shook his head, smiling slightly at him. "No thanks, Barry. But hey, I thought Jimmy said the lawn was off-limits for soccer. Isn't he trying to grow something here?"

Jimmy occasionally made up new rules about what we were allowed to do where. I wondered if we were in trouble, but Barry just looked a little … amused, or confident or something.

"Not anymore," he said, walking over with exaggerated nonchalance to stand near Tiran. "He put in this new groundcover that's supposed to stand up to extra traffic. He told us to try it out."

"Oh," Tiran said, "Okay." But he didn't move away yet.

One of the twins had retrieved the soccer ball and tossed it to Barry, who always acted as _de facto_ ref in our games. Barry caught the ball without looking and dropped it off-handedly to kick lightly between his feet while he cocked his head and looked up at Tiran.

"Hey, listen," Barry began, and I heard that familiar assurance in his voice, the weight that gave him leadership among all the kids. I watched, curious to see whether it worked with Tiran too. "We've been meaning to ask. You know that big open area behind the games room?"

"You mean where the orchids were last year?" Tiran said, sounding half-wary and half-interested.

"Yeah. Well, it's not being used for anything this year. I checked with Boothsby and he said he wants to leave it fallow for a couple of years, let the soil clear up. So we were thinking it would make a great place for a race kart track and jump."

Tiran looked down at Barry, who faced him evenly. I couldn't quite place Tiran's expression – somewhere between indulgence and pride, like he might have been tempted to prolong the negotiation just for his own fun and perhaps for Barry's edification.

"Oh, you were? Did you ask Boothsby what that would do to the soil?"

Barry nodded. "Yeah. He said it wouldn't hurt as long as the track was dirt and we didn't spill a bunch of oil into the ground or whatever."

"What about the jump? Wouldn't that have to be concrete?"

"No, wood. Works better that way, and dad says he could build it."

"You've been looking into this, have you?" Tiran sounded slightly amused and slightly threatening, the way a cat would talk to a mouse. "Did your dad say he'd pay for it too? Or are you expecting me to cough up?"

"He said there's enough left-over wood for the jump, and the track won't cost much, just some material for barriers and some of his time, if you don't mind." Barry managed to defer to Tiran without sounding very deferential. "If you don't want to pay, we can probably kick in enough from our allowances," he added.

Now _that_ I hadn't agreed to. Perhaps Barry was winging this part, banking on not having to put up what he offered, but he did it with confidence and conviction.

Tiran looked kind of perversely delighted at being stymied. "Hm." He seemed to have run out of objections. After a minute he said reluctantly, "Okay, tell your father to put the numbers together and give them to Anderson. I'll let you know after I see the totals." I suspected his reluctance wasn't so much in agreeing to the proposal as in finishing the negotiations.

"Okay." Barry grinned suddenly. "Thanks Uncle Tiran!" There was that exaggerated, overly effusive, half-mocking tone again. He picked up the soccer ball and tossed it from one hand to the other, bouncing on his feet. "Sure you don't want to join us now?"

Tiran returned the grin wryly. "I don't know if I can handle the competition. Seeya later, Hawkins. See you guys." He waved at us all generally and headed off in the direction of his house.

Barry swaggered back toward us with the ball. "And that's how it's done," he said with satisfaction. "Now, who had it in play last?"

 

******

 

After the game, as Phillip and I trailed behind the others along the path to our house, I thought of something I'd been wondering about. "Hey, Pip. So, Jimmy works for Tiran, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Full-time job, looking after the grounds."

"Yeah. And that guy Ric who lives over there, he's in charge of security so he's paid too, right? And same with Uncle Paul, he gets a salary for something."

"Yeah. They work, they get paid. What are you getting at?"

"Well, what do mom and dad do?" I still didn't call Pat and Adele that in person but it was sometimes easier to refer to them that way, since the others did. "I mean, I don't see them working on the estate. Do they work somewhere else?"

Phillip looked at me for a second, then shook his head. "No. Kind of a full-time job raising five boys. Anyway … I thought Pat talked to you."

"He did," I said, with a momentary stab of impatience. "What's that got to do with it? Does Tiran pay him to sub?"

"I don't know," Phillip said, more vaguely now. "I mean, I don't know what their deal is really. I've never asked. But … yeah, I think they get some kind of allowance from Tiran."

"What?" There was that word again. Adults got them too? "An allowance?"

"Something like that. I don't know. But Pat and Adele don't have jobs, and as far as I know neither of them is rich on their own. Tiran gives them a place to live, so I assume he supports them in other ways too."

"For fuck's sake, Phillip," I said irritably, stopping in my tracks. "Who adopted us anyway? Pat and Adele, or Tiran?"

"What are you talking about? Mom and dad, of course."

"I don't know." I shook my head, calmer but still annoyed. "Ever since I got here, it seems like all anyone talks about is Tiran. It's like he's the only one who really matters."

Phillip didn't answer right away. "Well," he said after a minute. "He may help out our folks. But I can tell you right now that Tiran would never have adopted you, or me, or Curtis or a single one of the Hawkins boys. That's all on our parents."

I brooded over that silently as we started walking again.

"And I'm sure you've had the same lecture we all have," Phillip added after a moment. "About how Tiran made a deal with our parents, not with us, and he's not going to support us forever." He gave me a dry look, though to be honest I didn't remember hearing that one yet. "In other words, we're not in the Will … so we'd better be prepared to work for a living. The free ride won't last forever."

I heard the slight bitterness in Phillip's voice, but didn't really understand it. What he said made sense to me. I mean … did the other kids expect to be set for life? Did they think that whatever arrangement their parents had with Tiran would pass on down through the generations?

Working for a living didn't sound so terrible to me. Wasn't it what I'd done since I'd been old enough to follow orders? It's true I'd found a respite for now – a brief, unlikely, unreal idyll – but I had no illusion it would last. The best I hoped for was a chance to make some start-up capital and choose a career outside of my old community. Compared to the alternative I'd originally anticipated – dying young or spending my adult years in jail – that didn't sound like anything to complain about.

After a while I asked Phillip, "So – who else does Tiran own here? I know about mom and dad, and Dusty and Blackie. Who else?"

"Well, Gabe."

Of course that made sense as soon as he said it, though it hadn't occurred to me before. "So," I said, more sharply than I meant to, "Gabe starts out as adopted son, ends up as sub?"

"Slave," Phillip said, giving me a slightly amused look. "Gabe's a slave, not a sub. But yeah, that's how it worked out in his case. Doesn't mean I have any plans to end up the same way."

I took that with the usual grain of salt. Although, looking at Phillip, it was kind of hard to imagine him as anyone's sub.

"Well, who else?" I went on, after a pause. "What about Uncle Rocky – does Tiran own him?"

"I think Rocky would say so," Phillip said. "I dunno if Tiran would."

"Uncle Paul?"

"No. Definitely not."

I thought about that scene during the soccer game today. "What about the kids?"

"Oh, none. Gross."

Phillip sounded honestly disgusted. Well, maybe I'd imagined it, but I thought I saw something in that little exchange between Barry and Tiran. I let it go for now.

Over time, I got to know the other adults who lived on the estate and also learned more than I really wanted to about their various relationships. It turned out most of them had some kind of Dom or sub arrangement, though not necessarily involving Tiran. Jimmy Hawkins, for example, had two Doms – he answered to Dusty St. Vincente, and Ric, the head of security. Like Phillip said earlier, he also had a sub of his own, who lived next door and helped out with his kids. The boys called his sub Uncle Vidge and treated him like a second parent. Like me, they didn't seem to care that their father was owned. In this world, there was no shame in serving.


	10. Chapter 10

I hadn't had much direct contact with Tiran myself up till then, but one day a few weeks after school started he invited my family over to his house for dinner. My parents often spent time at his place, either "on duty", as they called it, or just hanging out with the other adults. We kids didn't have much reason to go inside the big house, though we occasionally explored the grounds nearby, scrambling around the cliffs or the beach below, or playing on the tennis courts close by. I didn't play tennis but of course the other boys wanted to show me what they could do.

Anyway, so Tiran had us all over for dinner. I guess that happened once in a while; he liked to check on his people, or maybe this time he wondered how I was getting on. For me, this would be my first time inside the mansion and I was a bit curious about it. I'd gotten used to the other houses on the estate but this one still seemed monstrous. I wondered if it would be radically different inside – more formal, or perhaps more lavish, with luxuries I hadn't even imagined? Or dungeons full of bdsm equipment?

As we crossed the lawn between our house and Tiran's, alongside the ball courts, the little kids zoomed around in circles ahead of us. They generally got over-excited at the prospect of seeing Tiran, probably because he had a way of pulling out random surprises so they never knew what might happen next. Of course Phillip never shared their excitement; he had this kind of dry _Go ahead, impress me_ attitude with Tiran, which I found funny.

Not surprisingly, my father turned into a jumpy, nervous wreck even before we set out. He didn't seem to be getting any better these days; he'd be fine until he anticipated seeing Tiran and then he'd fall apart again. Sometimes I wondered if he might have some kind of heart attack from all the tension. Adele always looked much calmer, and she kind of ignored Pat's anxiety; it was like she saw it as his problem to deal with.

At other people's houses we usually went around the back or just let ourselves in a side door, but here we went up to the big front porch and rang the doorbell. While we waited for an answer Pat mumbled something under his breath about how we should all just go ahead inside, but everyone else ignored him. After a minute Tiran's voice came through the intercom, telling us to come in and adding, "You too, Patty."

I filed that away as I followed my family into the house. Inside, it didn't look that much different from the others, just bigger, with more and larger rooms and more outdoor space as well. We went past what was probably the formal part at the front and ended up in a huge, high ceilinged room with a wall of windows opening onto a bunch of multi-level terraces that overlooked the ocean. The indoor space was set up for different functions – a sitting area with a screen, a dining table in one corner, a bar, and a small open kitchen. The whole room had a much more lived-in feel than the rest of the house.

I didn't see Tiran anywhere around, but Gabe was working at the range in the little kitchen when we came in. He came out to hug everyone and explained sort of apologetically that Tiran would be down shortly.

I'd chatted with Gabe a few times by now; he often dropped by our house to visit and sometimes joined us kids for games. I found him smart and well-attuned but unassuming, earthy, kind of sweet – innocuous enough overall. Today he looked a little stressed as he darted around trying to get everyone drinks and finish prepping dinner. To keep myself busy and out of sight, I offered to help him and he gratefully asked me to keep an eye on the stove to make sure nothing burned.

So I stood and stirred and watched the others interact. I realized after a while that Gabe hadn't made the meal, or at least not here. There had to be another, bigger kitchen somewhere in the house; this was more like a place for heating dishes up or throwing together something small and easy. Funny to think that Tiran needed two separate kitchens, and he'd probably never cooked a thing in his life.

Everyone else had moved outside, where a table was set, when Tiran made his entrance. He looked around the room and saw me first – so much for my strategy of making myself less visible.

"Hey, Tommy," he said, coming over to give my shoulder a squeeze. "How're ya doing?"

"Fine, thanks, sir," I said. I still remembered my first meeting with him, that day in the consultants' office, and I hadn't had enough direct interaction yet to quite shake that sense of needing to please a major player.

"Gabe got you doing the cooking now?" Tiran asked, checking out the various dishes underway.

"I guess so." We were alone, and I wondered if Tiran might seize the opportunity to pull some kind of move – an invitation or a veiled threat, a hint of something he wanted from me. But he just took a couple of tastes, then headed for the glass doors to the terrace.

"Everyone outside?" he asked, and went out without waiting for an answer. For a while I was alone in the kitchen; then Gabe came back in to relieve me, looking guilty, like Tiran might have made some comment about him passing his work on to me. I offered to help bring things outside but Gabe just smiled and told me to get myself a drink and relax.

So I went out and took a lounger beside Phillip – no shortage of comfortable chairs here – while the kids ran around the yard, Tiran and Adele chatted amiably, and Pat shuffled anxiously on his feet behind them, lighting Tiran's cigarettes, emptying the ashtray and refreshing drinks.

After a while Tiran called over to Phillip and I, asking how the race kart track was coming along. I knew Phillip would avoid talking to Tiran if he could and I didn't want to turn it into a contest over who could stay silent the longest so I spoke up.

"I think Jimmy started last week. The track's marked out, and he's working on the jump now."

Adele looked at us curiously. "What track is this, Tom?"

We hadn't mentioned it to my parents. "The Hawkins kids wanted a track for their karts so their dad's building it. Mr. Marx said we could use the empty field out behind the games room."

Tiran laughed a little over the top of his drink. " _Tiran_ is fine, Tom. That's what all the other kids call me. Unless you're Barry, in which case it's _Uncle Tiran_." He mimicked Barry's campy tone almost perfectly.

"Tiran," I said, by way of agreement. Then I added, "Anyway, thanks for agreeing." It seemed like a politic thing to say, even though I could see Phillip calling me an ass-kisser with his look.

They went on to other topics until Gabe came out to tell us everything was ready and we moved to the table. I watched the usual ritual of Pat waiting for Tiran's permission to sit down, and Gabe taking direction from Tiran as he served everyone, then joining us at the table.

Despite the deferential treatment from his subs, Tiran made a point of being congenial and casual through the meal, chatting with everyone and probing us kids for more news about our lives. Most of the time I thought he was making a show of being a good uncle-type figure, but occasionally I had the sense that he really wanted to know.

At one point, as Gabe got up to bring in another course, I offered again to help him serve, but he smiled and declined.

"Yeah, now you say no, Solly," Tiran said, managing to sound both jovial and slightly menacing. "You weren't so shy about letting Tom do your work before I got here."

Gabe, on his way into the house, winced a little. "Sorry, master. You're right, I shouldn't have allowed him to help."

Something made me speak up, against my usual policy. "Oh, I'm sorry, Gabe," I said, keeping my voice even. "I didn't mean to get you into trouble."

Gabe paused. "No, it's okay, Tom."

"I actually like cooking," I went on. "But I won't ask again if Tiran doesn't approve of it."

This time Gabe shot a look at Tiran, who laughed and said, "Okay, Tom, I get your point. I won't blame Gabe for letting you help in future. Okay?"

I looked down at my plate to hide my expression. "Sure."

"I think Tom's feeling a little sorry for Gabe," Adele said soothingly.

That wasn't exactly it. Maybe I identified with him a bit, as another adoptee, and thought he took a lot of crap. But then, there were plenty of other adoptees around who didn't get treated that way at all. Maybe my annoyance had more to do with feeling like I was in the middle of something I didn't understand.

I didn't respond to Adele, but when I glanced up, I saw Tiran giving me an odd, intent look. "Tom … " he said, "you know Gabe _wanted_ to be my legal property, don't you?"

_What_? "Legal property?" I repeated, and around me, I could see the adults exchanging looks. "What does that mean?"

Tiran turned to Pat. "I thought you told me you filled Tom in," he said sharply.

Of course Pat almost had a break-down. "I did, master! I mean, I thought I – I mean, I told him … "

Tiran shook his head impatiently. "Okay, forget it. I guess it's not your job to tell him about Gabe."

"Tiran, we didn't want to overwhelm him," Adele put in. She had a way of speaking to Tiran politely without sounding afraid of him. "We thought maybe he doesn't want to know all the private details of every relationship."

"Fine, but this is hardly a private detail," Tiran said, irritably. "It's only been thrashed out in the highest court in the land and reported on endlessly by every public media outlet in the world. I'm sorry, Tom," he said, turning to me, more calmly. "I just assumed you'd heard about it."

By now I had started to share Tiran's irritation. I really didn't care about Gabe's situation one way or another, but I did care about the way everyone made a big deal about me not knowing. I steadied myself and spoke neutrally. "I heard that Gabe's a slave, but it's none of my business if he doesn't care to talk about it."

Gabe had come back outside and begun serving the next course. He shot a quick look at Tiran but didn't speak.

"In this case … " Tiran began slowly. "It doesn't actually matter what Gabe prefers. But if it makes you more comfortable, Tom, we can ask him. Sol? Do you care?"

I watched Gabe, mostly out of curiosity; I couldn't read what he thought at all. But he just shook his head and said, "Of course not, master."

"Okay, Tom? So here's the deal. Gabe told me, a couple of years ago, that he wanted to legally belong to me. Of course he's been my sub for many years. We go way back, Gabe and me." Tiran had started out speaking matter-of-factly but a bit of an edge crept into his voice now, as though the history he alluded to had a bitter taste.

The reference to Gabe's past reminded me that his history wasn't so different from mine, and I guess my thoughts showed in some twinge in my face, because Tiran looked at me closely and added, "Of course, him being my sub had nothing to do with being Pat's son. One doesn't follow from the other."

I shrugged, not liking to give myself away. "Sure."

"Anyway. It wasn't just Gabe's idea. We had this friend who wanted to try it out in court, argue that a person should be legally allowed to belong to another person if they wanted to." Tiran spoke dismissively, like the idea didn't interest him that much. "Gabe wanted to be the test case. So we went to court, argued about it for a couple of years … "

I stopped listening. Of course. I knew all about this case; everyone did. It had been huge, historic, sensational. I hadn't paid attention at the time because it didn't seem to have any impact on me, but just like Tiran said – every media outlet in the world had covered it. "That was _you_?" I said to Gabe.

Tiran paused, and Gabe nodded. "Yes."

"So that's what else you're famous for," I said.

Gabe gave me a little grin. "Yeah," he said.

"Uh, right," Tiran said, after a second. "He's famous now. Me too, a little," he added with transparently false modesty. "But the point is, I own Gabe outright, just like I own this house or the table we're sitting at. He's my property. Which, you know … " He kind of trailed away, as though he realized how that sounded. "Means that if I want to give him a hard time for no good reason, I actually have every right to do that."

"Still makes you an asshole though," Phillip put in.

Everyone turned to look at Phillip. He shrugged, unconcerned, and took another bite of his dinner. "Just saying."

Tiran took a breath. "Yes, thanks. Very helpful." I couldn't tell if he was angry or not, but Phillip didn't look worried.

I glanced around the table and thought I could see Gabe laughing, but he covered it up well.

"So," Tiran began again. "Any questions, Tom?"

"No, thanks." I matched Phillip's blithe expression. "Well, just one. Does that mean I'm allowed to help Gabe in the kitchen or not?"

Everyone laughed, and Tiran gave me a faintly appreciative look. I started to think that for a powerful Dom he didn't seem to mind being called out too much. "You can do whatever you want, and I won't blame Gabe for it. Okay?"

"Sure," I said, and couldn't help smiling a little.

The conversation moved on and I went back to lurking, listening and observing. But there was still one more surprise to come that night. Towards the end of the evening, as we lingered on the terrace with coffee while the twins dozed off, the talk turned to a recent accident where Pasha St. Vincente had broken his ankle, and from there to stories about other injuries, as people always like to share their anecdotes.

At one point, wanting to include me in the conversation I suppose, Adele turned to me and coaxed, "What about you, Tom? Any broken bones or major injuries?"

"No," I said without thinking; it wasn't a serious attempt to cover anything up, just my usual bland response to questions about my past.

Tiran laughed. "Oh, come on, Tom."

"Gun shots," I said shortly. "Beatings."

That kind of shut them up for a moment. Then Adele said lightly, "Any broken bones?"

"No," I said again.

The others would have taken that at face value but Tiran gave me a little nod. "It's okay, you don't have to talk about it."

"I said no," I repeated, annoyed.

"I know you did. But you lied."

I stared at him. He was right, I had lied. Once, when I was maybe ten years old, I'd broken a toe. No one else knew anything about it; even I only realized it was broken because I went to a makeshift medical clinic after a couple of days, where they told me. But I'd used a fake name and they said they couldn't do anything about it anyway so I'd just left again. There couldn't possibly be any record of it; even those consultants, whatever else they might have dug up on me, had no way of finding out about that.

And I knew I hadn't hesitated or given anything away when I answered Adele's question. I mean, I lied all the time; it just made things easier. This was a classic case where lying didn't matter; I just did it to get myself out of the conversation.

Which would have worked perfectly, if Tiran hadn't called me on it. _How did he know_?

"I – "

"Never mind. Sorry." Tiran gave me an easy smile and started to turn away, but Curtis, who had been half asleep, suddenly jumped in.

"He _always_ knows when you're lying!" he said. "Guess what number I'm thinking of, Tiran!"

"Two," Tiran said good-humouredly.

"Wrong!"

"One," Tiran guessed.

I stared at them, still trying to make sense of it. This was obviously a game they'd played before.

"Wrong!"

"You're lying – it's one!" Tiran said, and pounced playfully on Curtis.

Curtis laughed, batting him away, then looked at me. "You try, Tommy," he said.

It was just a stupid game. I could have brushed it off. But somehow, it seemed better to know. I thought of a number and looked at Tiran. He tossed out a couple of guesses which I called wrong, and when I lied he just stopped and smiled at me pointedly.

That made no sense. I shook my head and started over. He did it again, so effortlessly and so accurately that finally I believed what everyone had told me: Tiran really did have a lie detector superpower. But that meant …

"It's why we asked him to interview you at the end," Adele put in, quietly. "Just to confirm that what we'd heard was true."

I remembered that – the interview, and the final question Tiran had asked me. As awareness fully dawned on me, Tiran met my gaze and for a long second our eyes locked. Then he turned away and gestured at the twins, both sound asleep on a sofa. "What do you think, Dell, should we just throw a blanket over them and leave them till morning? Or maybe you guys want to get the kids home."

Adele and Pat took the hint and rounded everyone up. I joined in mechanically with the chorus of voices that said good-night, and followed the others across the side lawn back to our own house.

That night I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't stop thinking about that one piece of damning information Tiran had, the secret he had kept for me. Why hadn't he called me on it at the time? Why did he save it, hoard it up to hold over me? How did he plan to use it? Could my adoption still be reversed if new information came out? Adele had told me the social workers could take me away. What about the police – what could they do? Surely I could still be charged, with any number of things. Would I go to jail? What did Tiran want? What would he demand in exchange for keeping this quiet?

I kept going over and over the implications of what I'd realized, and trying to decide what it meant for me. I couldn't figure out Tiran's motivation or plans, and without knowing those things I had no idea what to do about it. By morning I think I'd just grown too tired of the endless round and round of possibilities to try any more.

As soon as I saw light through my bedroom windows I got up and dressed, walked over to Tiran's house, and waited beside the porch until I thought someone inside would be awake. Then I rang the bell.


	11. Chapter 11

This time an employee of some kind answered the door. I told him my name and said I needed to speak to Tiran, and that if he wasn't up I'd wait. The man looked doubtful, but showed me into a small room near the front hall, with a desk and a couple of chairs, and said he'd pass on the message.

Surprisingly, I didn't have to wait very long. Within ten or fifteen minutes, Tiran appeared in the doorway, wearing a silk robe and looking scruffier than usual, but alert. "Tom –" he said. "What's wrong?"

I stood up and faced him. "I want to know what you want from me," I said bluntly. The door was open, I realized, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

Tiran didn't react. "Nothing," he said. "I don't want anything from you."

" _Don't_." My voice had turned into a low growl. I tried again, slightly louder. "Don't waste my time."

He seemed to sigh as he reached back to shut the door, then walked toward me. "Please," he said, waving at one of the chairs, and taking the other himself.

I sat back down. Two chairs, facing each other, I noted automatically; classic even-sided negotiation position. He looked at me without speaking so I went on. "We both know what you have over me," I said. "I want to know how you plan to use it. Now."

"Tom, I'm sorry you're upset. But there's nothing to talk about, really. I have no interest in blackmailing you, even if I could. What would I want from you?"

"Everyone wants something," I said.

"You're – what, fourteen? What interest could I have in you?" He studied me for a moment. "Sex? You think I want sex from you?"

"It's been heard of."

"I'm not interested in children. And in case you haven't noticed, I have money. If I did want that, I could buy my own."

"Isn't that what you just did?"

He looked at me steadily. "Look, I realize what this is about. I know what I did back then, at that interview. It doesn't give me something to blackmail you with. I signed the liability statement for those sleazeball consultants; I can't go claiming something different now. And I gave my advice to Pat and Adele. I made a judgement call. I hope I was right but either way, that's on me. It's not something I can use against you."

I listened intently, too tired for subtlety. As far as I could follow, his words made sense. "But still," I said. "You can pull it out anytime. Say that you missed something critical. Get me sent – "

"But why? Why would I do that?"

"You don't need to do it. You just need to hold it over me."

"Pat and Adele aren't going to throw you out now, no matter what they find out about you that they didn't know before. They'd blame me, not you."

"They're dependent on you. And everyone wants something."

"I don't want anything from you." He spoke simply, and then seemed to wait, with the same serious expression, for whatever was coming next.

"Then what were you doing last night?" I demanded. "Why did you have to make _sure_ I knew?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and he actually looked regretful. "I didn't mean it like that. I just thought you'd want to know about my – my ability, Tom. For future reference. I can see you that you sometimes lie to protect your privacy. That's up to you. But it doesn't work if I see what you're doing. I'm sorry if we were being intrusive."

He finished and sat quietly again, watching me. I tried to absorb what he said, finding myself a bit deflated. Of course I didn't believe he never meant to use his hold over me, but there didn't seem to be anywhere left to go in the conversation. I couldn't force him to tell me. But how could I live with this uncertainty, the wild card left unplayed? I could accept – had often accepted – someone having power over me when it was clear what they wanted in exchange, but I've always hated not knowing how or when a debt would be called in.

"I told you," I said, summoning up some of my earlier conviction, "I want to know your plans now. I don't want to keep waiting around for you to spring something on me."

"You can wait if you want," he said. "But there's nothing to come. I have no designs on you." He half-smiled at me. "I'm sorry you don't believe me; it can't be much fun waiting around for a trap. But I get that you believe what people do, not what they say. So I guess you'll just have to wait and see what I do." He stood up and walked to the door. "Which, right now, is go have some breakfast. I'd invite you, but I plan to have mine in bed so an invitation probably wouldn't go over too well."

He opened the door and waited while I got up and came toward him. It was a polite dismissal, but I had one more tactic to try. If Tiran wouldn't admit what he wanted from me, I could always make an offer and see how he reacted. "Or maybe," I said, moving up to brush against him, "You're waiting to see if I'll invite myself."

To my satisfaction, that caught him off-guard. He tried to take a step back, hit the edge of the doorframe, and for a moment didn't seem to know what to do next. I pressed forward again, pushing my thighs and hips against him, and tilted my face up to his as I slid my hand toward his groin. Then I felt a sudden pressure on my chest, forcing me backward.

"No," he said, a bit quietly at first, then more firmly. " _No_ , Tom." He took his hand away from the front of my shirt as soon as I lost contact with him. "That's not what I want. Please." He watched me as I recovered my balance and straightened. "I'm guessing you didn't get much sleep last night, did you? Why don't you go home and take a nap? And … I think it might be better if you and I avoided any physical contact for now. Okay?" He stood against the side of the door, his arms folded against the rich embroidered fabric of his robe, looking at me evenly.

I hesitated, then shrugged. "Okay," I said, finally. "Sorry to bother you." He nodded, and I went out.

 

******

 

Nothing got any clearer in the weeks that followed. I saw Tiran around as usual, and neither of us made any reference to that morning conversation. He kind of made a point of not being alone with me but he didn't seem unfriendly either and after a while the weirdness started to dissipate.

I still didn't like the feeling of someone having potential power over me but after I thought it over for a while I found on the whole that I didn't expect him to try anything. It wasn't so much that I believed what he said; it just didn't seem likely that he'd pull something on me after I'd given him the perfect opportunity and he'd not only declined to take it but insisted he didn't want it. How could he turn around now and do the opposite without losing face? I didn't care much about 'face' myself, but it seemed to matter a lot to mainstream people.

So I put my worries about Tiran on the back-burner for now and went back to wondering about Pat, Adele, and the other adults I dealt with. Why hadn't any of them made a move on me? I mean, I didn't especially want to start servicing anyone, but I'd figured out a long time ago that it would be worth it in this case for the blackmail material. Anyway, I'd been waiting for that shoe to drop since I arrived, and by now I was getting impatient.

Pat in particular acted touchy-feely with everyone, and I kept waiting for him to notch it up with me, but if anything he seemed more circumspect now. Like maybe he'd noticed my suspicion. Adele had always been more restrained, and beyond the occasional hug or maternal kiss she still kept pretty hands-off. I only really had contact with the other adults when we played sports, and yes, Uncle Rocky was a big, physical man, but I couldn't say he did anything suggestive. And since there were always other people around when we played, I couldn't even see a way of making up a credible claim against him. Same with the others; I had nothing I could use to support saying anyone made a pass at me.

Nor did any of them seem interested in me for other purposes. No one probed me extensively about my past; no undercover agents got introduced, wanting my help in an investigation or to set someone up. No strange obsessions or fetishes came up in conversation. No one proposed anything illicit at all, other than the Hawkins kids who were always coming up with the usual teen-age thrills.

To be honest, it was exasperating. I mean, I'd assumed it would be easy enough to find out what these people wanted with me, do a little business, make a profit, and move on. By now I'd been here almost six months and I had nothing to show for it except the allowance I'd saved, with no leads and no prospects in sight.

I started to wonder if I needed to be more proactive. Maybe I should be making opportunities, not waiting for them to come to me. I mulled that over for a while. Could I approach one of the adults, make it clear I was open to negotiations?

Tiran still seemed like an obvious target to me; he'd resisted my first attempt, it's true, but I couldn't shake the sense that he was less immune than he pretended. I'd been worried about what he might use over me, but maybe I had it the wrong way round. What if the real question was what I could use over him? But after I considered that for a while, it occurred to me that the richest man in the country, who controlled a stable of subs and had spent years in court fighting to legally own a slave, probably wouldn't be too embarrassed if it came out that he'd taken a blow-job from a teen-ager. You can't blackmail the unrepentant.

What about other options? It crossed my mind that Pat's fear of Tiran made him vulnerable. Couldn't I take advantage of that? Maybe I could find – or create – a scenario that would get him into trouble with Tiran when it came out. Pat had basically told me his home, his family, his whole life were on the line if he screwed up again. Maybe what he needed was a push in the right direction … and then an offer of silence, for a price.

I toyed with that one for a while. Watching Pat and Tiran more closely, I started to see Tiran's hard-core act as a bit of a cover. Although Pat seemed to think he could be thrown out at any moment, it seemed unlikely to me. But of course, as long as Pat believed it, I could exploit it.

The trouble was that for all his timidity and apparent naïvite, Pat actually had a lot more resolve than you realized at first. I tried developing a closer confidence with him – talking about his past and the stresses of his current life, and sometimes gently pushing him toward what I figured would be temptation. But despite his skittish-kitten appearance, Pat just wasn't that easy to lead astray.

On top of that, I had my doubts about what would happen if I ever did find him in an exploitable position. Sure I could try to negotiate with him, but only if he didn't have a heart attack or complete mental health breakdown first. And with my luck, he'd turn out to be one of those people who'd rather confess and take their lumps than try to protect themself.

That brought me full-circle back to the usual sure thing: sex. It seemed impossible that not one of these adults could be compromised. Why would they surround themselves with so many young kids if they didn't have some taste for them? It made no sense. But coming on to the wrong one, out of the blue, with no encouragement, could just as easily lead to complication as negotiation. Pat, for one, would probably be horrified. It would likely just land me in more therapy.

I gave up in frustration. I'd have to keep watching and waiting. At least living here in the meantime wasn't so painful.

 

******

 

Except, that is, for the therapy. Fuck, I hated those sessions. They weren't so bad at first, since all the therapists started off with a bunch of tests and assessments and I only had to play along. But once those were done, of course the counsellors and therapists wanted me to _talk_. We'd sit in a room and they'd ask these pointless, wide open questions and then sit and wait, as though they expected me to launch into some long monologue about my life, my past, and my deep innermost thoughts. My usual policy of answering questions with polite, innocuous, one-word answers, which worked well enough with everyone else, did nothing to satisfy these guys. I thought about making stuff up just to fill in the time, but that seemed like too much effort. So I stuck to my guns and we ended up sitting in complete silence for hours at a time. Annoying.

Once, after a few months, a couple of the therapists had a meeting with Adele at the end of my session. They asked me to go wait in an ante-room while they met in an office, and I did at first, but when I saw that the door to their room wasn't completely closed and no one else seemed to be around, I strolled over and leaned against the wall nearby. I'm not stupid; I wasn't about to pass up on a chance to gather a bit of useful information.

I couldn't understand most of what they said, as usual, but I took note of some of the phrases I heard and checked them out on my comm while they talked. As far as I could tell, the therapists seemed to think I was mildly fucked up, had trouble relating to other people, and showed unhealthy levels of "emotional reserve" and "distrust". On the other hand, based on some "brain function analysis" tests they'd run earlier, my overall intellectual functioning had been rated at Level 1B which translated into … I searched on my comm … "borderline genius". Well, at least they agreed with me: I'm not stupid.

I noticed that Dell didn't say much while the others talked; she asked a few questions for clarification and made some polite non-committal responses when they paused for breath. When they started wrapping up I moved back to the ante-room and waited for her to come out.

On our way home, Adele seemed quiet and I thought she might be considering what to tell Pat. That made me wonder what she'd tell me, if I asked. The more I wondered, the more I thought it might make a good test: since I actually knew the answer, I'd be able to gauge how honest she was in her response.

So I asked. "What did those therapists tell you at that meeting?"

She glanced at me. "Oh, I'm sorry, Tom. I should have filled you in right away. I just didn't think it was that interesting. They said you have trouble trusting people, you may have a personality disorder of some kind – which isn't surprising, given your history – and that you've been assessed at one of the highest levels of brain functioning, especially in the areas of planning and analysis. In other words … " She shrugged, smiling. "They told me exactly what we already know about you."

I thought about that. As far as I could tell, she'd accurately relayed everything she'd heard. Didn't these people know that information is power? You never share all you know. Didn't they have a strategic bone in their bodies?

"So … what happens next?" I asked. "What do they want to do about it?"

"Do?" She glanced at me again, and then back through the windshield in front of us. "Why do they need to do something?"

"Well, don't they want to … cure me or something? Aren't there meds?"

She laughed. "It's not that simple. We can't change your history and entire personality with a pill, at least not yet. And even if you do have some kind of … difficulties, or disorders, that's kind of what we'd expect, given your past. It's still early days. We know you're going through a lot of adjustments, and so far whatever … personality traits you have, they don't seem to be having a big negative impact on you, or the people around you." She glanced over at me a little sharply. "Unless you think differently? Is something bothering you? That you think you need help with?"

"No," I said quickly. I had no problem with the hands-off approach. "So you don't think any of my problems are going to get fixed," I said, after a minute.

"I didn't say that." She chewed her lip a little, and I wondered if she'd picked up that habit from Pat, or maybe vice-versa. "I mean, I don't know … how much your core personality is going to change at this point. As for not trusting people or whatever … well, that just makes sense to me, considering how you've grown up. We can't "fix" that. All we can do is try to help you feel safer. I hope you'll eventually find at least one person you trust or you're comfortable sharing with. But even if you never do, we want you to have the best life you can."

She lost me somewhere in there. I went back to the main point, at least for me. "So if you don't think they can do anything about it, why do I have to keep going to therapy?"

"Oh, Tommy." She laughed a little ruefully. "It's not because we think you'll get much out of it. The social workers expect us to send you, and the courts want to see it too. We need to cooperate if we can. And I do want you to feel like you have other adults to talk to, in case there's something you're not comfortable raising with us."

If I didn't want to say something to her or Pat, why would anyone expect me to say it to complete strangers? I'd be more likely talk to one of my parents than pretty much anyone else I'd ever known. Sometimes I thought I'd never understand these people.

But I kept on going to therapy. Now that I knew Pat and Adele didn't expect much more from it than I did, I found it a little easier. Just a tedious requirement, and fortunately I didn't have many of those


	12. Chapter 12

There weren't many requirements in the rest of my life. Other than showing up for school and the occasional family dinner, and finishing my homework assignments, no one really demanded anything of me. I guess I could have spent my days playing games, like most of the other kids, or looking for kicks, like Lance and Steve, but neither seemed to be the best use of my time.

I figured wherever I ended up after I left here, being in good shape had to help. Plus I really liked the sense of control that physical strength gave me. So I developed a long, rigorous work-out schedule, including before and after school routines, and followed it daily. Once I realized that some of the paths and walks around the estate formed a kind of track, I added a forty minute run to my daily schedule.

I also made a point of watching at least one contemporary vid every day to keep myself immersed in the speech patterns and vocabulary that people here used. It really was like learning a whole new language, and I didn't want to keep sounding like a novice. Of course I picked up a lot by hanging around with the kids at home and school. But I wanted more than just teenage slang; I wanted to know how mainstream adults spoke to each other. No matter what I did in the future, being able to 'pass' would be an obvious advantage.

Then there was the whole reading thing. I finally started to see the value in it. I'd always thought of written language as archaic and obsolete, and usually I could work around it; pretty much all information could be found in multimedia these days and for the small amount that couldn't I had text reader technology. But I started noticing the small, subtle ways that my family and others still relied on reading – like, for road signs, billboards, display information in stores, labels on clothes, the detail in restaurant menus. Phillip and Pat had quietly set me up with a scanner on my comm, which read text and fed it to me verbally. But getting a steady stream of audio in my earpiece distracted me from the real world, which had its own disadvantages. And it only worked where I could move the scanner close enough to the text, not always possible.

At school I wasn't anywhere near learning to read yet, let alone moving into a regular classroom. The more I realized how far behind and limited I was, compared to everyone else around me, the more impatient I grew. The gap between me and the rest of the mainstream world seemed to yawn larger every time I looked into it. I wanted to start filling it, crossing over it. But the teachers at school had a pretty fixed plan for me and I figured the best way to move it along quickly was to work the program. So I actually did more than they expected me to.

Socially, navigating my status with high school kids was a whole new area for me, and I didn't like it. Most of the kids at school were okay but I saw that they sometimes gave me funny looks and once in a while I caught a barbed comment, not quite directed toward me but easy enough to overhear. My position seemed murky. Of course I'd noticed from the first day that the kids on the estate ranked high at the school. I lived on the estate as well, I hung out with the Hawkins kids, and people probably thought I had a mysterious and dangerous past – all of which no doubt worked in my favour. But other qualities made me vulnerable – the language barrier, my accent and background, being so far behind academically, not knowing the local conventions, being a bit stunted socially. It was easiest for me just to stick close to Phillip and the Hawkins boys.

The only other person I spent a lot of time with at school was Jeannie. Every now and again, when I hung out with her, I thought about sex. For the first time in my life I wasn't having sex regularly, and sometimes I missed it. By this time, I'd finally accepted that none of the adults meant to force me into anything; at least not yet. Which is not to say I thought they weren't interested – maybe they were just waiting till I got older or till there was less scrutiny from the social workers – but for whatever reason, it wasn't happening right now.

As a very young kid, I'd serviced the older boys in my neighbourhood as a matter of course. Once I took charge of the franchise, I'd considered myself entitled to the same service from younger boys, and to cooperation from girls. It never occurred to me to wonder if any of them liked it – or even if I did. In my experience, you took sex as a form of control, to enhance your status and strengthen your authority. Personal choice didn't enter into it.

When I first came to the estate, I'd assumed that, as new kid on the block, I'd be expected to provide service to someone. Now that I realized the adults didn't require it – at least not yet – I started to wonder about the other kids. Of course sex was a frequent topic of conversation in the games room and at the beach, as you'd expect with a large group of adolescent boys, but it always seemed to be about trying to score with other kids. None of the Hawkins boys, or anyone else I hung out with on the estate, had ever suggested anything to me.

On the whole, I decided I liked it that way; it kept things simpler at home. School was a different story, though. From what I understood about mainstream society, sex in high school could be an option. But unlike my old life, here I couldn't just take what I wanted; I needed to keep up some veneer of giving people a choice. Eventually I found that certain girls, and boys, at the school didn't put up much resistance, or could be persuaded with minimal effort, so I got a little that way. But I found those kids to be of limited interest. With someone like Jeannie, who I actually didn't mind spending time with, I still wasn't sure how you added sex to the mix, if you even wanted to.

 

******

 

Between school and homework, working out and watching vids, cooking with Adele and collecting ingredients, I probably could have kept myself busy most days all by myself. Being alone didn't bother me, and I still thought of my bedroom and gym as safe spaces. As I got more comfortable being outside, I sometimes went out for walks, mostly in the wooded area near our house. Hardly anyone went there, besides me and sometimes Uncle Paul, who I occasionally bumped into on the narrow winding paths between the trees. If I followed the trails to the end I eventually came out on a desolate, rocky stretch of the water where I could watch the waves in pretty much guaranteed solitude.

But I made a point of spending time with the other kids on the estate. I had lots to learn from them, and coming across as isolated or withdrawn would just attract more attention. Especially now that I knew the counsellors had already flagged this; the last thing I needed was more time in therapy.

By this time the racing kart phase was over. The track had been fun while it lasted, but Lance and Steve had soon destroyed all the karts in their half-assed attempts at ever more absurd stunts and moves. Sometimes I thought about everything I'd done to have a hope of staying alive past my sixteenth year, and then about how hard Lance and Steve seemed to be trying to make sure they wouldn't. Of course they'd lobbied for more karts but the adults had refused to buy them, and the track now lay abandoned and unused. Lance had moved on to a new obsession with personal hovercrafts.

The older kids and the adults kind of moved in two separate worlds on the estate. My parents focused mostly on Curtis, who had issues, and the twins. The Hawkins' dad, Jimmy, took an active interest in all of us but with a full-time job and nine kids he seemed a bit overwhelmed, and spent most of his time with his youngest ones as well. That left the rest of us pretty much at our own disposal.

The adults rarely came to the games room or the public beach, and we kids almost never went inside Tiran's house. The rest of the grounds were kind of like neutral territory; we'd roam around and the adults would do their thing and occasionally we'd interact with each other in the ball courts, playing fields, lawns or walkways.

The estate had a full gym, much more elaborate than my little workout room, housed in a separate building near the mansion. The adults used that, while I stuck with the equipment next to my bedroom; I preferred my privacy. But like me, the adults often took runs along the track through the grounds, so I'd sometimes bump into them on my route. Uncle Paul, in particular, seemed to follow a schedule similar to mine, and he took to falling into step alongside me when we met. I tensed up the first few times that happened, expecting him to make some move on me when we reached one of the more isolated spots, like the wooded area near our house, but he never made any attempt and often didn't even talk much. So I started to relax in his company.

I also often ran into him on my way to the rec centre, since his house lay along my route. Paul would be heading toward the mansion or the garage, or sometimes coming back from the area behind the games room, where some of the workers lived. Usually we just nodded and said hello but one day he came up from the path behind the rec centre as I was leaving it, and we fell into step together.

"Hey, Tom," he began, after a couple of minutes. "How's everything going? At school and all?"

I gave my customary half-shrug. "Okay, I guess."

"Getting along with everyone? No problems with the other kids?"

"No."

He hesitated, then said, "I hear you're friends with a girl there. Jeannie?"

I glanced at him in surprise. "You know her?"

"I know her dad. He's a colleague of mine, came up here to work with us."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so."

We walked in silence for a minute, while Uncle Paul seemed to be thinking something over. As we reached the turnoff to his house, he paused and laid a hand on my arm. "Tom – "

That was odd. I stopped and stared at him.

"I hear there's a … a rumour," he said, frowning a little. "Going around. About some kids from school who – got hurt. You know anything about that?"

Ahead of me, the path cut across the edge of the big lawn and straight to my house. I looked along it, calculating the time till I could be alone in my bedroom. A couple of minutes at most. "Everything's fine," I said, and shrugged his hand off, lightly but firmly. "See you later."

I felt him watching me as I walked on. _Some kids_ , I thought cynically. There couldn't have been more than two. Of course I knew what he was talking about. Hadn't I hired Dodge to take care of them? I'd even paid his way here; right now he was waiting in a small room near the school, at my expense, hoping for more work.

The two boys had given me a hard time. A small group of them came up to me in the lunch room at school one day and asked mockingly about product for sale, mimicking my accent as they spoke. It only happened the one time, and Barry Hawkins had strolled up behind me before I could even respond. He put an arm casually around one of the boys and said coolly that he knew where they could score if they wanted, but weren't they worried about having to go back to rehab if anyone heard about it?

The boys had taken the hint and left me alone. Barry had made a point of joining my table for lunch that day, and neither of us said anything about the little exchange he'd interrupted.

I knew Phillip had quietly steered me away from similar incidents in the past, gently urging me on when certain kids tried to stop me or start a conversation. Now I realized Barry kept an eye on me as well. Between the two of them, and the reflected glory of the estate, I was probably covered. But in my experience, a challenge not met quickly and decisively led to more testing and increasing pressure, until you either took a stand or gave up and rolled over. And I didn't like being dependent on anyone else for protection.

It's not that I cared where I fit in the whole teenage hierarchy; I just didn't want to deal with any fallout. In the end I decided to take matters into my own hands and send a clear message – one that would end the testing and solidify my reputation as someone not to mess with. Having cash available for something like this was a luxury I appreciated. I could easily afford to bring Dodge here, and even keep him around for a while in case I needed help with anything else.

Of course I'd given him very specific instructions. No permanent damage, and a coded message – nothing that would obviously link to me. After some consideration, I'd settled on a phrase the boys had used with me. I coached Dodge on it carefully, until he could even imitate their mocking accent. That would make the message clear enough. I picked out the two ringleaders, and we agreed that Dodge would stage two separate muggings, use a knife, keep the injuries painful but superficial, and repeat the same phrase in each case, so that the boys themselves would make the connection when they compared notes.

Subtle, sure and satisfying … just the way I liked it.

With my guidance, Dodge had pulled everything off nicely, getting to both boys within a few of hours of each other. The boys went to the same hospital but were released quickly. A couple of days later I knew the buzz had started at school; I saw it in the occasional nervous glance and heard it in the voices that sometimes lowered as I came into view.

For my part, I played it low-key, trying to keep the impact contained. I could tell when the rumours reached Phillip and Barry from their troubled looks but neither of them said anything about it to me. Lance, on the other hand, wasn't smart enough to be discreet. When he asked me outright if the stories were true, I shrugged and said I didn't know what he was talking about.

I wanted the original group of boys to be certain and terrified, while everyone else whispered and wondered. So far, everything had gone according to plan.

But Paul's question threw me. I'd counted on adults being out of the loop, as they usually were. A teacher asking me about it wouldn't have been so bad; they might overhear something at school. But Uncle Paul? How could he possibly have heard? How was he connected to the school? Had the news really spread so far already?

I called Dodge when I got back to my room, and had him get on the next transit home. If either of the injured boys ran into him here and identified him as their attacker, the link to me would easily be found. Safer to leave Dodge back home, let him settle my old debts there, and bring him back if I ever needed him here again.

 

******

 

Uncle Paul liked basketball, and would often join us for a bit of two-on-two or three-on-three on the court in the long summer evenings. One time, after we finished a game, he waved and headed off while the rest of us sprawled on the lawn beside the concrete to catch our breath before starting again, and I gave vent to my curiosity.

"So what's the deal with him anyway," I asked.

"Who?" said Phillip. "Uncle Paul?"

"Yeah." I frowned, trying to isolate what I found odd about him, besides his mysterious knowledge of school gossip. "It seems like everyone else here has some kind of arrangement – like someone they're paired up with. Mom and dad. Your dad has Vidge," I added to Barry and Steve.

" … and two Doms," Barry put in drily.

"Blackie and Dusty, Dusty and Karen. Gabe's got Tiran." I put that in for Gabe, who had joined the game and stuck around afterward. "What's the deal with Uncle Paul?"

"He's single," Barry said. "Far as I know."

The grass under us felt warm and soft as the sun settled down over the ocean. At this time of evening the muted colours and shadows made the outdoors less intense to me. "How come?" I asked. "What does he like? Men or women? Dom or sub?"

Phillip laughed. "What do you care? You interested?"

"Definitely men," Gabe answered. "I don't think he's ever been with a woman."

I gave Phillip a look. "I just don't get it. Why is he the only one who's not paired up?"

Barry shrugged. "He has boyfriends sometimes, but I don't think they last. I don't know if he cares about D/s stuff though … "

"Oh, he's a Dom," Gabe put in, "I'm pretty sure."

Gabe must have been almost the same age as my mom, but somehow he fit in more with us than the other adults did. With no job or kids of his own he only answered to Tiran, who didn't seem interested in him a lot of the time. He came across as laid-back and unassuming, and we didn't mind having him around, but he also kept a subtle kind of distance from us.

He didn't usually speak up much, so I glanced at him in surprise, until I remembered why he knew Paul so well. "Oh right. He's your dad."

"He was a lot different when we were younger," Gabe said. "A big player. You wouldn't have been wondering where his boyfriends were then."

I drew a blade of grass out of the ground and looked at the pale root, then laid it flat between my thumbs. "So what happened?"

"He still likes the scene," Barry said knowingly. "He goes out a lot. Even with Tiran, and he doesn't even like Tiran."

Gabe nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure he still has affairs, he just doesn't like to bring them home."

"But he looks so … serious all the time," I said. I blew against my thumbs, making the screeching whistle that Phillip had taught me. Barry knocked the blade out of my hands.

"Yeah," Gabe agreed. "I think it's 'cause of his job. It's really stressful, and no one here really gets it."

"What is his job, anyway?" I found myself curious about work these days. All I'd ever known or heard of was self-employment.

"The Foundation," Phillip said. "He runs Tiran's Foundation."

I'd heard that before but it told me nothing. I leaned back on my elbows, looking up at the sky. "What does that mean? What's a foundation?"

There was a pause, and I saw the other four exchange uncertain looks, like they weren't too sure themselves.

"It's a … some kind of charity," Steve said.

"No," Phillip corrected disdainfully. "It's Tiran's get-out-of-jail free card. He gives a big chunk of money away so he can point to that whenever people call him out for being an asshole."

Gabe laughed. "You're both right, I think. It's like … a big trust fund that Tiran set up, and Paul's in charge of it."

"In charge of it how?"

"I think he decides what they use the money for."

"So it's, like, a business? An investment thing?"

"No, no. It's for … you know. Helping people."

I turned my head toward him. "What do you mean, helping people? Who? How?"

"Different ways, I guess. I know they do a lot of lobbying and advocacy. Some hands-on stuff, like building schools or wells. Micro-economics. Health programs."

"But for who?"

"Tom – I don't know all the details. Poor people, I guess. Poor countries."

I could barely grasp what Gabe said. "You mean – people he doesn't even _know_?"

They all laughed aloud at that. "You sound shocked," Gabe said, with a grin.

Of course I was shocked. I'd never heard of such a thing. "But why would he do that?"

"Who? Tiran or Paul?"

"Well," I said more slowly, thinking it through, "As for Tiran … I guess it's like Phillip said, when you're that rich maybe you need to give some of it away so you're allowed to keep the rest." That kind of sounded like the kick-back programs I knew back home. "But what's in it for Uncle Paul?"

"Well, he gets paid."

"But he must have access to tons of money. Who would just take all that and give it away to complete strangers?" I probably sounded baffled, because I was. Then I realized the obvious and added, "Oh well, I guess he takes some off the top."

Now Gabe looked shocked. "Are you accusing Paul of fraud? He would never do that!"

I laughed. "How do you know? Who wouldn't?" But when I glanced around I saw the others all looked horrified, and it occurred to me this was another one of those frequent gaps between us. Time for me to stop talking. "Come on," I said, standing up and brushing off my clothes. "The lights are on now. Time for one more game."


	13. Chapter 13

Now that I'd adjusted more to life here, I started to realize how much actually _wasn't_ that different from what I'd known before. Of course a lot of things on the estate seemed bizarre and foreign compared to life on the street. But maybe even more surprising was how much didn't.

I noticed it especially in the relationships. Just like at home, people here had different levels of power, debts and obligations. Some people banded into units – families, partnerships, Dom-sub agreements – similar to our franchises, for better strength and protection. Interactions here reflected personal loyalties, alliances, debts, obligations, allegiances. How comfortably you lived depended, to some degree, on how much you pleased people with more power than you.

All of that made sense to me; it jived with what I'd always known. Back home, even when I'd been powerful enough to control my own franchise, I'd still been beholden to the central corporations for supply and protection, and I'd always had to negotiate alliances with other businesses. Life here was way more comfortable than what I'd known back then; if fitting in meant recognizing the rules and realities around me I had no problem with that. At least I understood how it worked.

I knew where my loyalties lay here. And I figured it was in my own self-interest to support the alliances my family had made. Beyond that, if Tiran owned half the adults on the estate, and the other half had their own masters – if my father owed Tiran, or Jimmy had made a deal with him to support his kids – wasn't that the way the world worked everywhere?

By this time I'd decided I had no problem with Tiran. He obviously had arrangements with most of the people here, and no one suggested he didn't keep up his end of the bargain. I'd long since stopped worrying about what he might use against me. As far as I could tell, he'd been straight with me. If anything, it occurred to me that I owed him, for whatever advice he'd given Pat and Adele. I could see how some people – Phillip came to mind – didn't like him much, but to me Tiran seemed like someone I could do business with.

As for Uncle Rocky, Pat and Adele, Jimmy and the other adults here, I could pretty much buy that they cared for their kids, their friends, the people around them. Their concern was similar to the tribal loyalties I'd known back home – it applied to a specific, limited group of people they were in some way bonded to. New people – like me – got added through a careful, selective process, and then moved inside their circle of interest. Just like at home, no one spent any time worrying about the vast hoards outside of their circle.

Uncle Paul, on the other hand, totally confused me.

At school I learned a new concept, which the teachers called _altruism_. A few weeks earlier, if they'd described the idea of a person _behaving in a way that benefits others, even at their own expense_ or _acting with unselfish concern for the welfare of others_ , I would have chalked it up as another one of those flighty ideas that mainstream people pretended to believe in for no good reason. But now I thought about Uncle Paul.

The idea that anyone – Paul, Tiran, whoever it was – would choose to give away money to complete strangers with no quid pro quo attached, or pay for things to benefit people they didn't already know, struck me as bizarre. _Altruism_ as an explanation didn't fit with what I knew about Tiran. But I wasn't so sure about Paul.

Between his work for the Foundation, his oddly detailed knowledge of what went on at school, and his outspoken, free-spirited, slightly angry edge, I found Paul more than a little puzzling. Someone for me to keep an eye on.

 

******

 

The next day I asked Jeannie if she knew Uncle Paul. I believed her when she said he'd never heard of him, though she confirmed that her father worked for the Foundation.

Jeannie was still one of the few girls I knew. Her family had moved here from somewhere in South America, and I think we both had a similar sense of being outsiders in a strange world. She used to laugh about the other kids – how indulged they were, how sheltered and clueless about the real world, their shallow interests. I guess she thought of me as different from them.

The incessant media interest and public curiosity about Tiran created a lot of common knowledge about our lives on the estate, and at first I wondered if people at school knew that my father was owned. But then I realized our association with one of the world's most wealthy, famous, powerful men more than counterbalanced any stigma my dad's submission might cause. Money and fame trump a lot of things.

I sometimes met kids from school at the beach where I did my sail boarding, so I started to cultivate an image based on that: I grew my fair hair out like the surfers here did and adopted a casual boarder style in my clothes, which showed off my now well-developed physique – as though it came from the sport. I'd always been more of a listener more than a talker, and I tried to let people think that reflected a laid-back surfer vibe – rather than reserved paranoia, as the therapists labelled it.

For whatever reason, no one at school challenged me again. It was a small school; I had my little group of friends and acquaintances, and while everyone else probably knew me, after the incident with the muggings they mostly left me alone or treated me with hands-off politeness.

Of course I saw other boys get into fistfights often enough. All the Hawkins kids did occasionally, and so did Phillip and Curtis. Lance Hawkins, especially, seemed ready to go off at any moment, probably partly the result of his product of choice, which I saw he used regularly. I sometimes got dragged into playful fake wrestling matches, and some days it took all my restraint not to deck someone, probably Lance, who could be infuriating. But so far I'd been able to avoid any kind of serious direct engagement.

No one at school had a hope of taking me in an unarmed fight and everyone knew it. I figured if anyone had a grudge against me they'd find another way – either ganging up with others, or – more likely, with the kids at this school – they'd hire someone professional. Like I did.

One morning, right after I sent Dodge back home, when I still half expected more testing at school, Phillip saw me start to tuck a small weapon into my jeans as I got dressed.

"Holy shit, Tom!" he said, doing a classic double-take.

I stared at him, puzzled at first, then followed his gaze to the thin metal device under my fingers. It was a very modern piece of technology, able to inflict anything from discomfort or pain to lethal force, with much more control than a traditional gun. Another benefit of my carefully saved up allowance. "This?" I asked.

"Uh, yeah," he said, more calmly. "Is that … really necessary?" he asked, like he was trying to sound reasonable.

"Oh." I looked at it thoughtfully. "I'm not really sure," I said, after a minute.

He half-laughed. "Are you worried about protecting yourself? Because … believe me, Tommy, you don't need that to intimidate us."

We stared at each, and for a strange moment I had this sensation, almost like a vision, as though our positions had somehow reversed and for a split second I could almost see myself as Phillip and the others saw me: a fair, tanned, muscular boy, with a casual exterior covering a kind of taut, coiled tension, and an impassive, watchful, unreadable expression. It hit me for the first time that they all must take me pretty much on faith.

After a minute I slid the device slowly out of my pocket and dropped it on the table beside my bed. "Okay," I said, smiling faintly at Phillip. "I can leave it here."

I never carried the thing around with me after that. And Phillip, as usual, was right; I didn't need to.

 

******

 

The Hawkins crisis erupted on a Friday afternoon, coming up to a year after my adoption. I guess it started in the school parking lot, as we all sat in our yellow bus waiting for the driver to come back so we could go home. That sometimes happened; she'd get off the bus while we boarded, to chat with the other drivers or maybe run an errand. But today she'd disappeared.

We found out afterwards she'd gone next door for a coffee, bumped into someone she knew and got distracted. That was her fault, of course. But what happened next couldn't be blamed on her.

As it happened, Barry wasn't on the bus that day. He'd recently turned sixteen and got his driver's licence. Some mornings, when he was running late, he'd miss the bus, take one of Tiran's cars out of the big garage and drive that to school instead. Tiran had a whole collection of cars and a couple of full-time mechanics who looked after them. Of course Barry was supposed to ask permission before he took one of the cars, but the mechanics didn't press the point, and the other adults seemed to turn a blind eye to it.

Anyway, that afternoon, when all the other buses had left and we'd been waiting a while in the parking lot, Lance grew impatient. He went up to the front of the bus and honked the horn a couple of times to try and get our driver's attention. Then he saw the keys, and jokingly – at first – started the engine. He would have been around fourteen at this time, and of course he didn't have a driver's licence; he loved cars, and speed, and maybe he'd driven something around the estate once or twice, but he had no idea how to handle anything like the bus.

When the other kids egged him on, derision met bravado. Lance climbed into the driver's seat, started the bus and began driving it around the now-empty parking lot, looking for our missing driver. From there it just escalated – his brothers criticized his skills and he defended himself, and next thing you know he was determined to drive the bus home.

I barely noticed any of this. As usual, I was at the back of the bus, reviewing my homework assignments on my comm. I sometimes chatted with Barry or Lance on the way home, but when they weren't around I generally just got started on my work for the evening.

What I finally did notice was Phillip standing up in the aisle, pulling the twins and Curtis out of their seats. "Fuck this," he said, to Lance. "Open the doors. We're getting off."

At the last minute I grabbed my things and followed Phillip and the kids off the bus. I didn't really know what was happening but Phillip hadn't led me wrong so far; my instinct was to follow his lead.

As we stood on the pavement, Lance pulled the doors shut behind us and a couple of seconds later the little yellow bus lumbered away, out of the parking lot, onto the highway and out of sight.

I blinked at Phillip and he rolled his eyes. "Lance," he said. "What a maroon. Mom would kill me if I let the kids stay on. C'mon," he said, pulling out his comm. "Let's get someone to pick us up."

We heard later what happened to the bus. Lance, driving erratically and way too fast, with reckless disdain for common sense or personal safety, still by some miracle almost made it home. But just before the estate gates he came up behind Barry, who had pulled over in his borrowed car to chat with a security guard by the side of the road. Not quite in control of the bus and unable to stop quickly enough, Lance ran hard into the back of the car. Both vehicles were totalled, the kids in the bus were thrown around, and the security guard outside landed in a field a few hundred yards away.

No one died. In my books, that made it fairly minor, as incidents go. But of course the adults didn't see it that way. Everyone scurried around looking shocked and worried, and at first all the talk focused on who was hurt and how they were doing. I knew enough to keep out of the way when something big went down, so I stuck close to home for the weekend. So did my brothers; I think they were all a little freaked out.

It took a day or two for the dust to settle. I picked up news second-hand, from mom and dad, who talked to the other adults, and from Phillip, who always seemed to know what was going on. Eventually it became clear that the kids hadn't been too seriously hurt and the worker would recover. That's when the rest of the impact began to emerge.

The Hawkins kids were in disgrace. The adults blamed them all – from Barry, who should have been on the bus keeping the little kids safe, to the younger ones, who admitted to encouraging Lance.

Rumour had it that Tiran was livid. "He's way more pissed about his car than the kids or the worker," Phillip said cynically. But I suspected there might be more to it than that.

The other adults complained that the Hawkins kids had been out of control for months, and that something should have been done about them long ago. Jimmy's two Doms blamed him – especially Dusty, whose son, Pasha, had been on the bus and suffered minor injuries. Jimmy, understandably, was distraught.

Everyone demanded tough action for the kids, or _serious consequences_ , as the adults here liked to say. On Sunday night we heard the ruling: the Hawkins kids would be kept home for the next two weeks, attending classes electronically but otherwise grounded and incommunicado … except for two hours each evening, during which they'd work in the huge gardens at the back of the estate grounds, under the supervision of Boothsby, the gardener.

" _All_ the kids?" I asked Phillip disbelievingly, when I heard. The youngest Hawkins boy couldn't have been more than nine.

"All of 'em. Two hours a day, every day for two weeks."

I sat silently on my bed, wondering how Lance would take that. He had a way of dismissing any kind of restraint on his action. Then I thought again about the nine and ten year olds. "They're really going to treat the little ones just the same as Lance? How is it _their_ fault that Lance decided to drive the bus? What were they supposed to do?"

"They didn't try to stop him or get off," Phillip said, shrugging.

_Like we did_ , I thought to myself. No one seemed to be blaming me or Phillip for anything. Yes, Phillip had protected his little brothers, and I'd piggy-backed on his good sense. But neither of us had done anything for the younger Hawkins kids; we'd left them to their fate. And I was older than Lance. Couldn't I have stopped him if I'd tried? Yet no one had called us to account for our lapses.

Phillip added more slowly, "I don't think it's really about blaming the little ones, though. I think Jimmy just wants have an impact – to make an impression on them before it's too late. Like maybe it is for Lance."

I wondered about that. Lance was fourteen, a year younger than me. Could it really be too late him? He used to talk about being a race car driver when he grew up but these days he didn't even pretend he had a goal for the future. What would he do when he finished school, left home or got kicked out? Did he have any kind of plan? Did Barry, or Steve, or any of the others?

Not that I did either, but I thought about my options every day. The Hawkins kids were so much further ahead than me – they could read and write, speak with flawless mainstream accents, count on whatever support or training they needed. They could choose any future they wanted. I lacked so many basic skills; I'd probably never catch up to other people. The best I hoped for was a chance to blackmail my way into a bit of start-up capital, so I could make some kind a living on the outside. And I still didn't know if that would happen.

 

******

 

The Hawkins debacle made an impression on us as well. It came up often at the dinner table as Curtis and the twins talked about little else. One night, Phillip and I stayed out on the deck after dinner while Pat put the little ones to bed, and Dell took the opportunity to launch into a discussion about our futures. Just as Phillip had warned me earlier, she gave me the spiel about how I'd have to support myself at some point, complete with the "no free ride" warning. I had to stop myself from looking at Phillip so I wouldn't see his smirk.

"Have you thought at all about what you might like to do, Tom?" Dell asked me.

"No." I mean, I had, but mostly I still focused on where the start-up would come from. I hadn't identified any possible career directions.

"Of course we'll support you in whatever you decide," Dell said. "And you know … " – I could see she was looking for a way to phrase this delicately – " … there's plenty of options that don't involve going to college."

"Oh," I said flatly. "Yeah, I get it."

"I'm not saying you couldn't handle college," she said quickly. "It's just that … I think you might find it frustrating. I swear, they haven't changed the basic format of higher education in five hundred years. They still expect you to sit and listen to lectures in a classroom for hours at a time. I just think you might prefer something more … hands on."

"Oh," I said again, a little more receptively this time. _Hands on? What did that mean?_

"Maybe you can think about what you like doing, and see if there's some way you could make a living at it."

I was still mulling that one over, wondering what I liked doing, when Phillip suddenly spoke up.

"Hey, mom," he said, like he'd been following his own train of thought, "Do you really think the Hawkins kids are out of control?"

She looked at him. "Who says that?"

"I dunno, everyone." He shrugged. "They say it's already too late for Lance, he's never going to amount to anything once Tiran stops supporting them."

Adele frowned. "Well, that's a bit pessimistic. I don't see how fourteen or fifteen is too late to learn. Kids go through periods where they don't seem to be thinking much, but that doesn't mean they won't figure things out later."

"But some kids are so — "

"— spoiled," I couldn't help putting in. They looked at me, and I lifted a shoulder. "Entitled? Privileged?"

Phillip and Dell both laughed. "That's harsh," Phillip said. "But yeah. What happens to kids who've had it so easy?"

Dell shook her head a little. "You know, it's hard to grow up somewhere like this without getting used to it. Not everyone is as grounded as you are, Pip. Sometimes I think it … " She hesitated, and looked up as Pat came back outside, mission accomplished.

"Mom's just telling us we need to learn more humility," Phillip said to Pat, with his usual dry cynicism.

Pat laughed. "Is this about the perils of having an easy life again?"

"Yeah," Phillip said, "She's about to start selling us on the benefits of your old batman-major system."

"I'm not saying it was a panacea or anything," Dell said. "But I do think it kind of helps counteract the entitlement thing."

"Not for the major," Phillip said.

"Oh, even for them. When you have a responsibility for someone else, it can … you know, give you a sense of purpose."

"So you're saying, if only Lance had a batman, he'd be better able to support himself once Tiran kicks him out?" Phillip said.

Dell laughed. "Okay, Pip, I'm not pushing it on anyone. I'm just saying, it worked for us. And I'm done now. Sorry about the lecture, boys. I'm sure all of you guys will be fine."

There it was again: Adele's unwillingness to look too closely at any of us. It's as though she thought that by assuming the best and ignoring the rest she'd make it come true.


	14. Chapter 14

The most obvious impact of Lance's stunt was that life on the estate got very quiet for a couple of weeks. Phillip and I hardly went to the rec centre since there was nothing to do there, with the Hawkins kids kept at home. I spent more time sail boarding at the beach and working with Adele in the kitchen. At first I liked being left in peace, but after the first week I had to admit I kind of missed the other boys.

One evening, as Adele and I started prepping for dinner, she asked me to pick up some fresh greens from the estate's vegetable gardens. I headed across the lawn, past the other group of houses, and into the footpaths that wound through the various fields at the back of the estate.

I didn't usually bump into other people on these trips; the gardening staff worked during the day and would be gone by the time I started gathering produce for dinner. But tonight I heard voices in the fields ahead – multiple voices, high and silvery, carrying across the still evening air towards me. I listened for a moment, puzzled, then recognized the sound of children, some cheerful, some whining. A deeper richer voice cut through the others, strong, playful, distinctive – Barry, I realized suddenly. Of course; the Hawkins kids were out serving their time in the fields.

I stopped before they saw me, not wanting to embarrass them. They surely didn't want me witnessing their punishment. I listened again, long enough to pinpoint their location, then took a more roundabout route to avoid them. But the field they worked in was close to mine, and as I walked among the rows of the vegetable garden collecting lettuces and herbs, I couldn't help tuning into the familiar sounds of their interaction.

Finally I gave in to temptation, and stepped up behind a hedge separating my field from theirs so that I could watch them, unseen. The kids were scattered around a large field, kneeling in the dirt between rows, pulling up weeds, checking for insects, thinning the plants. It had to be back-breaking work, as they bent and leaned over the vegetation, some of them dragging buckets or scooping up stacks of weeds and carrying them to compost piles at the edge of the field. They all looked tired and sore, and they moved slowly in the accumulated heat of the day. But none of them seemed beaten down or defeated; on the contrary, they worked with a kind of efficient camaraderie, chattering lightly amongst themselves.

And then I saw why. Barry paced around the field like a good-natured drillmaster, a bundle of relentless energy and encouragement. He seemed to be everywhere at once, moving endlessly from one kid to another, lending a hand here or relieving a burden there, making a joke or squeezing a shoulder, teasing one kid or comforting another. It was like he knew the precise word or gesture needed to prevent a meltdown or revive a flagging spirit.

I noticed Lance and Steve working side by side, obviously griping together. When Barry came up to them he gave Steve's shoulder a friendly slap and made some laughing comment in Lance's ear, and both the younger brothers grinned sheepishly and livened up. Next thing I knew, Lance had moved over to help the youngest kid with his work, while Steve began a run through his row, picking up stacks of weeds for everyone. And Barry had bounded on to the next group of kids in need of support.

I couldn't stop watching; I'd never seen anything like this before. Barry seemed to control the whole group of them through his own strength of character. At one point, he started a kind of exaggerated chant or song – like an army platoon would use – and to my amazement, the other kids promptly took up the chorus. Even Lance, looking half-embarrassed, joined in.

It was absurdly hokey, ludicrous even; if someone had described the scene to me I wouldn't have believed them. But watching it play out in front of me - the way Barry set the tone and carried the others with him through sheer force of will – fascinated me.

I stayed, mesmerized, until Boothsby, the head gardener, came over to tell the kids their time was up. As the kids slumped with relief Barry rounded them all up, got the tools and equipment put away, threw his arms around a couple of the youngest boys, and followed them all back to their house … the last one off the field.

 

******

 

I didn't see the Hawkins kids again until the two weeks were over. The sentence ended on a Sunday night, and the next morning they all met us at the bus stop with their usual boisterous energy, not looking abashed at all. Lance seemed a little annoyed about the whole thing and impatient to get back to his usual life; I didn't seem much of a change in him. But after a while I noticed something a bit different about Barry. I wouldn't call him embarrassed or fazed, just slightly quieter, more subdued than he'd been before.

We met at the rec centre that evening as though there'd never been an interruption. The kids had energy to burn after being cooped up for so long, and Lance and Steve had lost none of their bravado; if anything, they came across as more abrasive than ever.

After a couple of virtual games and a bit of pool, I went outside to the porch, as I sometimes did, to get away from the crowd for a few minutes. This time I found Barry already out there. That was odd, for him, but somehow I kind of understood it.

"Hey, Barry," I said, leaning back against the railing beside him. "How're you doing?"

"Okay." He looked up at me with his hazel eyes and clear, level gaze. "It's good to be back."

"Tough week?" I asked sympathetically.

He shrugged. "Hard on the little ones. The field work was pretty brutal."

I didn't say anything about having seen them that day. "So … " I asked after a minute, curiously. "Talked to Tiran lately?"

He glanced at me sharply. "No. Why? He say something about me?"

I backed off. "No – I don't know. Not to me. I haven't seen him."

"Oh." Barry looked down again, frowning at the floor of the porch. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, unusual for someone generally so attuned to other people.

When he didn't speak for a minute I added tentatively, "I just wondered if … you know, how he was taking it."

Barry shook his head slightly, still looking at the ground. "I can't … " he started, very faintly, and trailed away. Then he went on, more firmly, "I have to work things out with my dad first. I mean, I've talked to my dad but … he's been taking things pretty hard. I need to make sure he's okay. All of us. Before I … whatever. My family comes first."

I kind of wondered what it felt like to be part of a larger unit like that. Barry and his brothers had stuck together since they were tiny kids, and I guess when Jimmy took them in, and then the other set of siblings as well, it just sort of expanded the scope of their family ties. I couldn't really imagine thinking of myself as part of an organic unit like that, sharing a bond that put other members' needs ahead of your own.

But I could see that Barry hadn't shaken it off yet, even if he had an instinctive itch to stretch his wings a little. "Sure," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "So I guess we'll be seeing you back on the bus for now."

He gave me a sheepish, easy grin. "Yeah. Baby-sitting my brothers." He rolled his eyes a little. "Even if it's a lost cause for some of them."

I laughed, and we sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before going back inside together.

 

******

 

It took a few weeks for things to get completely back to normal. Jimmy, for one, had been shaken up pretty badly, and I could see that the kids handled him more carefully, almost gently, for a while. And Barry had a slightly worn out look, like he'd used up all his reserves during those two weeks and needed to refuel again. I watched to see how Tiran would react to Barry now, but they almost seemed to be avoiding each other at first. It was maybe a month later when I finally saw them walking across the lawn, bantering together, Barry looking up at Tiran with that playful, half-mocking expression I remembered, and Tiran failing completely in a half-hearted attempt to look stern.

After that they seemed okay together. But for his part, Barry never borrowed a car from Tiran again. A year later, on his seventeenth birthday, he got a sports car of his own from Jimmy. I don't know how Jimmy could have afforded that without some help.

Meanwhile, I went back to hanging around with the Hawkins kids, but I think the dynamic between us started to shift around that time. Where I used to prefer Lance's company because he seemed simple and uncomplicated, now I just found him kind of boring and sometimes annoying. I still liked Steve okay, but I avoided Lance if I could.

Barry, on the other hand, had a stronger appeal for me now. Since that incident in the gardens, I'd found something newly intriguing about him. It helped that he seemed to notice and return my interest. When we hung out in the games room or on the beach, he seemed to pay more attention to me, sometimes taking me aside or starting private chats. Instead of playing games with the younger boys, I often found myself talking quietly with Barry about life at school or on the estate. Maybe his attention flattered me but, for whatever reason, I liked it.

 

******

 

It wasn't a big surprise to me when Barry suggested we start up a mentoring system for ourselves, like the one our parents had when they were young. He proposed it to me privately first, as we sat out on the deck behind his house one afternoon, after the other kids had gone off to the beach.

"Have you been talking to my mom?" I asked, half-laughing.

He smiled wryly. "No, my dad. It's the same though, right? They all think it's this great character-building experience."

I leaned back in my chair, thinking about it. "It's gonna be a hard sell with Pip."

"Really?  You think he's going to object more than Lance or Steve?"

"Not so much object. Just not take it very seriously."

Barry brooded for a second. "Lance too."

"So … " I asked after a moment. "Why do you want to do it?"

He'd been pacing restlessly but now he threw himself down in the chair across from me and leaned forward intently. "You know we have to support ourselves eventually."

I tried not to roll my eyes. "Yeah. I've heard that."

"I just feel like … some of us aren't all that equipped for it. We have it so easy here. Maybe our folks are right, we could use a little more discipline."

"You mean Lance," I said bluntly.

He shrugged. "Lance, Steve, the younger ones. Me. Even you guys and Pasha. I mean, I know you're all way more mature than us – " he gave me a playful grin – "but couldn't we all stand to be, I don't know, responsible to someone? Or for someone?"

"Isn't that what our parents are supposed to be for?"

"Aw – " he clucked impatiently. "They can't do it. Your folks have their own problems, and my dad can't be everything to all of us. I think it's up to us."

I sat back for a couple of minutes, turning it over in my mind. I didn't really see the appeal of this kind of arrangement. I'd been there; it didn't scare me, but it didn't do much for me either. On the other hand, a lot of people – my parents, and now Barry – seemed to think there could be a benefit in it. I saw the sense of entitlement some of these kids had, and who knows, maybe a bit of discipline would be good for all of us. It worked for Pat, supposedly.

Barry watched me closely as I thought it over, and I saw how he waited for my reaction. I kind of liked the idea that my opinion mattered so much to him. Bringing the other boys on-board would be an uphill battle. On the other hand, if anyone could drive a group to meet his vision, it was Barry. And maybe my support would have some influence too. I had an idea that's why Barry had raised it with me first.

"Okay," I said finally. "I'm in. But how do you see it working?"

He gave me an exaggerated fist bump of solidarity, and under the campy gesture I saw his relief. "Thanks, man. Well, I have a few ideas ... "

He pulled out his screen and showed me some notes he'd already drafted, talking eagerly. He'd obviously spent a lot of time thinking about the whole thing, and I didn't have much to add, though I liked the way he took me into his confidence. He pulled up a little diagram of the pairings he proposed.

"Lance with _Phillip_?" I said, when I saw it.

"Yeah." He studied the chart, tapping his front teeth with his index finger thoughtfully. "It's the only way it works without pairing brothers together. And I could see Phillip having a good influence on Lance, can't you?"

"I don't know. Either that or they'll both just mock the whole thing to death."

"Maybe they'll bond over that." Barry grinned. "But did you see this?" He pointed to my name on the chart, which had a little arrow beside it, pointing up to his.

"Yeah." I glanced up at him with a quirked eyebrow. "You and me?"

"Would you mind?" he asked, suddenly uncertain.

I looked down. "I could live with it."

"It's not like I'm gonna be some hardass." Barry still sounded apologetic. "I just thought we could work together best this way. There's gonna have to be some kind of court thing, where people can go if someone's being unfair or not playing by the rules. I'm thinking I'll be the judge. But this way you can help me."

His automatic assumption that he would be the ultimate arbiter might have seemed arrogant but I knew it just recognized reality. Any time an issue came up between the kids, Barry inevitably acted as peacemaker, authority and referee.

I looked at his chart again. "But this doesn't show Lance having a major at all," I said, after a moment.

Barry nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think it has to be like that."

"But I thought – "

"We can't make it all about trying to control Lance. He's old enough." Barry shot me a sharp glance. "Unless you want to be in charge of him. Because I thought of that but … "

"No," I said quickly. "I don't want that."

"Then Lance with Phillip, and Steve with Pasha. That's how it works out. I know it's a bit odd that Lance and Steve don't have majors and you do but … if you can live with that, I think we have the best chance of selling it to them. The thing is, even though they don't have to answer to anyone, it still makes them kind of responsible for someone else, which could work just as well. Don't you think?"

I shrugged. He was right that Lance and Steve would probably never agree to anything else anyway. "Fine with me."

"And you're okay with Randall?"

I looked at the chart again. I hadn't even noticed the arrow from my name down to Randall's, and I probably couldn't have told you which of the younger brothers he was. "Yeah. Sure."

"He's a good kid," Barry said. "You won't have problems with him. Okay, so, why don't I call a meeting for next week?" He hesitated, then started uncertainly, "Do you think you might talk to … "

"Yeah," I said, knowing what he meant. "I can talk to Phillip ahead of time."

"I'm not gonna say anything to the other kids, though. Let them all hear it at the same time."

I could sort of see his strategy. "Did you talk to your dad about this?" I asked, thinking about Adele.

"No." He laughed. "Don't want to get his hopes up unless it's a done deal."

I raised the subject with Phillip a couple of days later, when he was hanging out in my bedroom as he often did, and found him surprisingly receptive. That is – he clearly didn't have much interest in the idea, but seemed resigned and willing to go along with it.

"I knew someone would suggest this eventually," he said. "And if you and Barry are in, I'm not gonna fight it."

I told him about Barry's idea to pair him with Lance, and he shrugged. "If you guys think mentoring me is going to turn Lance into some paragon of responsibility, you can go ahead and try. I don't mind playing along."

So it wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement, but I knew Phillip well enough to know that once I had his word on something, he wouldn't try to sabotage it. I gave Barry the go-ahead, and he went ahead and called his meeting.

That's when I really saw his strategy at work. Other than Barry, me and Phillip, no one else knew what to expect. I watched the room – we met in the rec centre – as Barry made his pitch, and saw Lance and Steve just look surprised at first, while the other kids reacted with obvious excitement. It might seem odd for the younger ones to be keen, seeing as they would be in more subservient roles, but I guess little kids tend to like anything that gives them access to older kids, and Barry touted the mentorship part of it especially hard. Phillip, true to his word, spoke up to say he supported the idea. By the time Lance and Steve had recovered enough to voice any objections, a consensus had clearly already formed in favour.

Lance, sitting beside me, punched my shoulder sharply. "You gonna let them drag you into this, Mertz?"

I shrugged coolly. "I'm okay. Doesn't bother me."

"I want to know who you're proposing to match me with," Steve cut in bluntly, over the general clamour. "What exactly do you have in mind, Bar?"

Barry nodded and pulled his chart up on the big screen. "This is just a suggestion. A starting point. If someone has a problem, we can talk about it."

Since I already knew what the chart showed, I took the opportunity to check reactions in the crowd. Some of them surprised me. Pasha St. Vincente, notoriously shy and sheltered by his father, shot Steve a frankly intrigued look when he saw the proposed pairing. Phillip, naturally, just looked bored, but I thought I saw a faint red colour creep over Randall's face as he studied the chart. And I watched it dawn on Lance and Steve that they'd get the supposed benefits of the proposal without having to answer to anyone themselves. Barry was right; they wouldn't object now.

After that the discussion focused on rules and logistics, the decision clearly made. As Barry had expected, everyone agreed we needed a kind of court to resolve issues, and assumed he'd be in charge of it. We agreed on some ground rules. Like, a major couldn't order their batman to do something that would get them in trouble with their parents, but short of that a batman had to follow orders, accept consequences from the court, or withdraw from the system. And aside from the official court process, no one could intervene on what went on between a major and a batman; that would be called "interference" and could also go to Barry for resolution.

In the end, the only change made to Barry's original chart was to take out everyone younger than eleven years; the younger kids would be added back in as they reached that age. There seemed to be general agreement that younger kids couldn't really understand or be expected to follow the rules. That made me think about my own early years, but I didn't make any objection.

That night the twins eagerly told Pat and Adele about our new system over the dinner table. I saw Dell try to hold in her reaction, while Pat looked kind of indulgent. They didn't say much, just listened to the younger ones buzz with excitement. Later, after the kids went to bed, Dell came downstairs to talk to me about it. She asked if I was comfortable with the plan or had been talked into it against my inclination. Even after I reassured her, she continued to look a little wary.

"I hope this is really what you kids want, and not some kind of weird obligation." She sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me, half worried, half oddly proud. "You know," she began again after a moment, "In my day, some people used to worry that kids of gay parents would grow up gay themselves. Now I'm wondering if it happens to kids with parents in D/s relationships."

" _Do_ they?" I asked curiously. "Kids with gay parents, I mean?"

"Well of course having gay parents doesn't make someone gay," she said, then paused and went on more slowly. "But things were different back then. In those days, before our time, people saw a much clearer line between gay and not-gay, and of course there was still a lot of bigotry and hate. Now that the bias is almost gone and we know that everyone fits along a continuum, we don't try to draw such a hard line anymore. I think what happened in those days was … maybe kids who grew up with gay parents saw things differently and maybe they were more open to same-sex relationships. So it might have _looked_ like they were more likely to be gay. But really, they were just more open to options that others might have avoided."

"Well," I said, considering that. "You could say the same thing about kids exposed to, you know, power-based relationships. Maybe we're just more willing to try it than kids who aren't."

She looked a little surprised, then smiled at me. "You could be right about that. I guess I should consider it a healthy thing, then."

After she left, Barry called me to hash over the meeting and debrief. He said Jimmy had been very happy to hear the news, and that Lance had griped a bit but not backed out. I found it oddly gratifying when Barry told me he thought the main reason Lance went along with it was because I did. He also thanked me for bringing Phillip on-side. I realized he was played me a bit, but I didn't really mind. I kind of liked being part of Barry's plans, and it was intriguing to think that my actions could influence others.


	15. Chapter 15

Over the weeks and months that followed, we worked out the details of the kids' new system through a kind of collective process. Barry and I sort of set the pace, but the other pairs developed in their own ways, and we gradually settled on general practices. Batmen got in the habit of checking in with majors daily, at school and at home, and spending a few hours together on weekends; we gravitated to our majors on the bus or at the rec centre and came to expect the same from our own batmen, where we had them.

A few cases went to court, and what we called "Interference" turned out to be the biggest issue. I think at first we all followed the natural tendency to comment on what other people did, chastising or mocking each other for behaviour that differed from our own. Since everyone resented this when others did it, Barry had to intervene frequently at first, until we all learned to keep our mouths shut. Eventually "no interference" became one of our most rigorously guarded principles.

Barry kept his word and rarely pulled rank with me. In private he almost never acted like my superior. He liked to consult with me about issues that came up with the other kids, and often had me attend meetings or sought my advice. In exchange, I had no problem keeping up appearances and deferring to him in public.

I had a feeling that one of the reasons Barry liked me was because he recognized a trace of the power I used to have; or maybe my physical strength appealed to him. I sometimes had the feeling he wanted to see me show my force; he'd say things to me like, "You could take him," or "He's afraid of you" – not just about the kids at school, but occasionally about the adults on the estate as well.

He also had a way of encouraging me to expect better or demand more privilege or status for myself – not in an aggressive way, but as though he considered it my due and thought I should stand up for myself. "You need a better board," he'd say when he saw me sailboarding at the beach, or "Why don't you send one of the kids for that?" when I wanted something back at the house. "Tell your folks you're too old to ride the bus," he said once, when he had his own car. "You can drive with me."

He liked to play sports with me – I was much better than him at most of them – and he'd always make sure we were on the same team, then use our combined strength to challenge the others, especially the adults. "Me and Tommy'll take you on," he'd say to Uncle Rocky or Uncle Paul – or Tiran, on the odd occasion when he was around. I could hear the pride in Barry's voice, like he controlled some kind of weapon.

I didn't mind any of this – like Barry's initial interest in me, I found it kind of flattering – but let's say our strategies differed a little. I liked to stay low-key, innocuous, in the background. To me, real strength lay in not being noticed – so you didn't need to respond to challenges, and always had the advantage of surprise if you needed it. Strength and power were things I wanted to know I had but didn't need to use. That put Barry and I almost at opposite ends of the spectrum. While I found his approach interesting, and sometimes even amusing, I also kind of felt like I had to manage him a bit.

My batman, Randall, on the other hand, took no effort. I couldn't exactly help him with his homework but he seemed happy enough just to hang out with me. In fact I thought he took a little pride in his status. As I got to know him, I found Randall had a lot of laid-back good sense mixed with a touch of adulation, which made a kind of irresistible combination. We worked well together. Barry was right, he was a good kid.

The other boys worked it out in their own ways. I gave Phillip credit for keeping his word. Far from uniting with Lance in disdain for the system, his polite obedience seemed to keep Lance invested in it. I knew Phillip well enough to see the cynicism just below the surface, but he kept up a convincing enough appearance that I don't think Lance ever saw through it. I could almost understand why people thought having a batman might be good for Lance; Phillip seemed to ground him a little, just as he'd grounded me when I first arrived.

With Steve, the next youngest Hawkins, the impact was even more noticeable. He'd always been one of those kind of gruff, inarticulate guys who speaks more in action than in words. But he met his match in Pasha St. Vincente, who had a similar way of not speaking much but who offered himself up with disarming trust. Pasha's shy devotion and open admiration seemed to awaken some dormant protective instinct in Steve, and the more vulnerable Pasha made himself, the more helplessly Steve seemed bound to him. I found it entertaining to watch.

Every now and again the new system brought back memories of my old days. I'd get these flashing images, like Tyco looming above me and promising shelter in exchange for service, or Kip looking up with his beatific child's face and empty eyes. I had to remind myself this was nothing like that.

 

******

 

Not long after we started the system, Barry and I walked together from the rec centre to my house as Tiran came out of one of the nearby houses, heading back to his own place. Seeing us, he waved and came across the lawn to join us.

"Hey," Tiran said, falling into step beside Barry. "What are you boys up to?"

Barry looked up at Tiran with a lazy grin, but I could see the way his muscles tensed up a little in the new company. "I'm going over to use Tommy's gym," he said, then pouted playfully. "Seeing as you won't build one for us at our place."

"I'm such a prick," Tiran agreed. "But, hey. I just heard some news about you guys. Is it true you've started up some kind of batman system like your parents had?"

I glanced at Barry, content to let him handle the conversation. He hadn't slowed down or paused to speak to Tiran, but I could see he enjoyed the attention. "That's old news," Barry bantered. "Where've you been? We've had it for weeks now."

"Really?" Tiran cocked an eyebrow with open interest. "Whose idea was that?"

"Mine." Barry couldn't help sounding a little smug.

"Yeah? Which set of parents put you up to it? Someone bribing you?"

Barry dug an elbow into Tiran's hip. "Fuck you, Marxie. We chose to do it for our own reasons."

"Oh, I see." Tiran laughed a little. "So tell me all about it. How's it working? Who's your boss – what do you call it, your major?"

Barry shook his head, smiling. "No major for me. Who am I gonna answer to?"

"What, you get a batman and no major? How'd you pull that off?"

Barry shot me a bit of a guilty grin, and I wondered briefly if my presence cramped his style. "It was by mutual agreement," he said with dignity.

"Are you in it as well, Tom?" Tiran asked me across Barry.

I nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

Barry added quickly, as though to forestall me, "He's my batman." I couldn't miss the touch of pride in his voice.

Tiran's eyebrows shot way up at that. " _Really_ ," he said, looking over at me.

"Yes, _really_ ," Barry said before I could answer. "What, you find that hard to believe?"

"No, certainly not," Tiran said, more amused this time. Then he murmured something to Barry I didn't quite catch, something about "a lion cub" and "how long till it … ?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Barry said out loud, laughing.

We'd reached my house by this time, and stopped on the path near our back yard. After a moment I went in through the little gate and Barry followed me, still bantering with Tiran. When I glanced back I saw that they'd both pulled up lounge chairs on the terrace to continue their conversation, so I shrugged and went to sit beside Barry while I waited for him.

Tiran kept glancing over at me as he asked Barry more about how the system worked; he seemed intrigued, though I couldn't tell whether it was the idea of me as a batman or the thought of Barry controlling me that had caught his interest.

We sat outside, the two of them chatting, until dusk began to fall and the light grew dim. That was when Pat stepped outside with dishes in his hand to start setting the patio table for dinner.

I got up to help Pat, and he glanced our way only briefly before turning toward the table. In retrospect, I think he must have seen three blurry figures, recognized Barry, and assumed the third was another one of the Hawkins kids. "Hi boys," Pat said, putting some of the dishes down. "You staying for dinner?"

Tiran and Barry both stopped talking. And then, in a low, disbelieving voice, Tiran said, "Are you fucking kidding me, Van?"

Plates crashed on to the table and the ground.  Before I could look up, Pat had fallen to his knees on the ground, eyes down, hands lifted imploringly. "Please, master! I didn't know – I had no idea … "

Tiran cut in on him, still sounding incredulous. "And now you're making _excuses_ for yourself?"

"No, sir, no, I didn't mean to." Pat spoke rapidly, shaking his head. I could see his hands trembling as he lowered them to his thighs. "I'm so sorry!" He stopped abruptly and clamped his mouth shut.

Tiran seemed to wait until he was sure Pat had finished speaking. Then he stood up and took a few paces forward so that he loomed over Pat's bent figure. "Remind me, Van Valkenburg," he said, very slowly and very softly. "How many rules did you just break? I think I lost count."

Pat whimpered slightly. "Oh, master … I – I think – at least two." He tried to hold himself still for a second before he gasped, "Please – _please_ don't – "

"Don't what, Van? What happens if you break even one your rules?"

Pat's chest rose and fell quickly; I heard his fast, shallow breathing. The tremors in his hands had grown more distinct and rhythmic. "You make me leave," he whispered. And then he threw himself forward, pressing his head to the ground and against Tiran's thighs, kissing his feet and his hands, pleading in frantic, helpless whispers.

I tore my eyes away, toward Barry, and saw him watching me. He kind of rolled his eyes a little, as though he'd witnessed this kind of scene before, and came over to stand beside me.

"Don't worry," Barry said, putting a hand on my shoulder lightly. "I've seen this before. Tiry's just scaring him." He glanced over at the door to the house. "But hey, I'm gonna go in and get started in the gym, okay?"

"Sure," I said. Barry went in, and I picked up the pieces of broken ceramic from the patio stone, swept up the fragments, and cleaned the table. When I finished, Tiran had extricated himself from Pat.

"That's enough, Van Valkenberg. Enough."

The begging stopped with a gulping sob, and Pat leaned back on his knees.

Tiran took a couple of paces away, then turned back to face Pat implacably. "The rules," he said, and it was clearly an order. "All of them."

I didn't get it but Pat did; maybe this was a ritual for them. "I don't enter or leave your presence without permission," he began quickly, like a kind of chant. "I ask permission to stay or leave if you join me." The rapid breathing meant he had trouble speaking now but he forced himself on. "I stand or kneel in your presence. And I don't speak without being spoken to."

I stared at Tiran. _Those_ were Pat's rules? They had nothing to do with his addiction.

"The consequences."

"As long as I follow these rules, your order to leave is suspended. As soon as I break any one of them then the original order to leave your estate comes back into effect. "

"Now get out of here. I'll speak to you later."

Tiran's words didn't exactly offer forgiveness, but Pat obviously heard it under the surface. "Thank you, master!" he said, scrambling to his feet. He kept his head down and put a hand to his chest for a second, as though to hold something in, and then he headed quickly into the house like he was afraid Tiran might change his mind.

I watched Pat leave, and after a moment I heard Tiran give a sort of exasperated sigh and sink back into one of the chairs.

"Sorry, Tom," he said shortly. "I have a zero-tolerance policy with Pat."

I stood beside the table. "I don't think he saw you were there," I offered. "When he came out."

"Doesn't matter. The rules apply without exception."

"Those rules." I paused, then said, "What do they have to do with managing his addiction?"

"Nothing. Why should they?" Tiran looked up at me sharply. "His addiction isn't my problem. How he treats me, that's what I care about."

I fingered the chair back in front of me. "It seems like … those rules must be tough to follow in a place like this. He lives on your property, he must come across you all the time. He has no way of knowing where you are at any moment."

"That's the idea," Tiran said coldly.

We looked at each other for another long moment. His face had grown hard and unfriendly, and I realized his apology to me had been a thin pretence at concern for my comfort.

"You'd really – "

"I'll do what I think is best." Tiran stared at me until I looked away. But when I did he spoke again, his voice softening slightly. "Come here. Let me show you something."

Curious, I went over to him as he dug into one of his pockets. When I reached him he showed me a piece of paper covered in handwriting.

"I can't read, Tiran."

"Sorry, I forgot. It's from your father. Basically thanking me for letting him stay here on the estate for another day, and hoping I'll do the same tomorrow." Tiran gave me a faint smile. "He's sent me a note like this one every single day since I agreed to let him stay."

"Is that another rule?"

"No." Tiran stood up, and tucked the little note away. "That's what makes it so endearing. Amazing how much good will a little gesture can buy." He smiled at me, and patted my arm briefly. "I better be going. Night, Tommy. Sorry for all the excitement. Say good night to Barry for me."

After Tiran left, I went inside to look for Pat. I found him in his bedroom, sitting on the floor and leaning against a wall, a hand still holding his chest. His skin looked pale and clammy, covered with a layer of sweat, and his breathing came fast and shallow again.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said in a gasp between breaths. "I just … my heart is – racing."

I'd seen this before, back in my old neighbourhood, in young kids living with constant pressure and fear. Usually right before I heard about them dying of some apparently unrelated condition. Stress did that, I realized.

I went out, and down to the kitchen where Adele was finishing dinner. "Dell. I think Pat needs a doctor or something."

Adele looked alarmed, until she went into the bedroom and talked to Pat. Then she came out and put a hand on my arm. "It's okay, Tommy. He'll be fine. Thanks for your help." She went back into the room and closed the door.

I stared after them for a moment, and slowly went back downstairs. _Something has to be done_ , I thought. Out of everyone on the estate, I still felt the most loyalty to Pat. His candid enthusiasm and almost naïve eagerness had first won me over. Now that I knew him better, I saw the burden he carried under his sweetness. What would happen if he cracked under the rigour of Tiran's discipline? How could I stay here without him?

_Stay here_. That's the moment when it finally hit me: I had no desire to leave my new home. Somehow, somewhere along the line, without meaning to, I'd made a decision to stay.

I stood in the middle of my bedroom and looked around at the things I'd grown accustomed to. My own space, privacy, the tools I needed to function here. I thought of my family upstairs, the routine of shared meals, security, stability. My friends, school, a kind of childhood. And outside, the wide open spaces that no longer seemed threatening to me; now they felt like home.

_Get in, profit, get out_. That had been my mantra, my game plan, for so long I could barely remember the reason for it. I sat down on the bed and started working through my old assumptions as methodically as I could.

From the beginning I'd expected some quid pro quo to be demanded in exchange for the luxuries in my new life. That had never materialized, and now I accepted it wouldn't, at least not any time soon.

But hadn't I also assumed that life in a family would be unpleasant? I'd expected rules and restrictions, a loss of independence. Yet here I had almost complete freedom. My parents rarely intervened in my life, and made a point of respecting my decisions. Sure, I had to go to school, study, interact with other people. But learning to read and write, picking up skills, those were things I wanted to do; they had to help me in the long run. And dealing with family and friends was a mild inconvenience at worst.

It's true I'd lost the authority I held back in my old community. I remembered, dimly, how it felt to be in command, to have people live in fear of me. Here I was just another kid; in fact, I answered to another kid. People generally treated me okay, but other than a bit from Randall, I didn't get the deference and service I did when I ran a franchise.

For some reason, that didn't really bother me. I didn't even mind reporting to Barry; he rarely used his hold over me. After a bit of thought, I realized I didn't have any innate interest in power – I just liked what it could do for me. Back in my old life, being number one gave me comforts and conveniences I couldn't get any other way. Here I had more luxuries than I'd ever imagined without having to fight for them.

Acting like a child did feel strange. I'd been operating as an adult for so long before coming here that trying to revert to childhood – a childhood I'd never known – was bizarre. Spending my time with other kids and participating in apparently typical kid activities – it seemed a little ridiculous, like play-acting. But it wasn't painful.

In fact, as much as I tried, I actually couldn't conceive of a place I'd rather be than right here. I tried to remember what had once been my ultimate goal – hadn't my fantasy been to get out of the old neighbourhood and somehow live independently?

I still wanted that – someday. For that matter, everyone here expected me to support myself eventually. Only now, instead of having to figure it out alone, I'd get help, a chance to prepare. By this time I'd come to understand what Adele had been trying to tell me earlier – that cooking could be a good career option for me. And I could also see that more training and practice – not to mention graduating from high school – would make it a lot easier for me when I wanted to make it on my own.

I reached under my pillow for the bills I'd stashed there when I first got my allowance. Enough to get on transit anywhere. My emergency fund, my escape route. Did I still need it?

Then, for a second, I panicked. I'd operated so long on the assumption I was leaving, I hadn't thought about whether I could stay if I wanted to. Had I done or said anything that limited my options? Had I burned any bridges inadvertently? But after thinking it over for a minute I realized no one here knew anything about my ongoing connection with the old neighbourhood, or about the services I paid Dodge for. No one could pin anything on me that would jeopardize my position here. Slowly I started to relax, even as I told myself to be more careful in future.

Thinking about the future reminded me that my parents often wanted to talk to me about my long-term plans. It occurred to me now that I might want to take those discussions more seriously. But in the immediate future, I was still most concerned about Pat's health. I needed him to stay around as well.


	16. Chapter 16

For the next few days, I thought mostly about Pat's health and stability. He seemed to recover from the incident with Tiran, his usual unabashed enthusiasm and low-key good nature returning apparently undamaged. But how long could he withstand the ruthless pressure he lived under?

Did Tiran really need to take such a harsh approach with him? From a few references I'd picked up, I gathered that people here generally agreed on the effectiveness of Tiran's measures to keep Pat on track. But even if the rules were good for him, did Pat need to be kept in such a state of anxiety? And did people realize how close to the edge he was?

For a while I toyed with the idea of approaching Tiran and asking him to go easy on Pat. I figured I could frame it in concern for my father's health, and my need, as a troubled, adopted teen, for ongoing parental guidance.

But something made me hesitate. For one thing, I saw that Adele took a deliberately hands-off approach to Pat and Tiran. She seemed to believe that whatever went on between them was for Tiran to decide and Pat to handle. I didn't completely understand but it occurred to me that she probably knew more than I did.

I also didn't really want to ask Tiran for a favour. I still had the sense that I could do straight-up business with him, but _business_ didn't mean asking him to be nice to Pat as a favour to me. The more I thought about it, the more I found myself thinking in terms of negotiations – what could I offer Tiran in exchange for what I wanted?

Of course I'd already tried the obvious and I didn't want to tread that ground again. But on the other hand, what else did I have to put on the table besides myself?

Then I wondered what I would specifically ask Tiran for. "Be nice" seemed naïve and simplistic; he'd probably just laugh at me in that kind of indulgent way he had.

As I mulled it over, I found myself watching Pat more closely to see what made him better or worse. It didn't take much to see that he got worse when he spent time around Tiran, and better when he didn't. The problem seemed to be that he spent a fair amount of time with Tiran.

I counted a total of six subs sharing the schedule to provide Tiran with coverage: Pat and Adele, Gabe, Dusty, Blackie and Uncle Rocky. But Uncle Rocky didn't live on the estate – he just came in for the occasional weekend – so he didn't have a regular place on the schedule. Likewise, Dusty frequently seemed to be away on location shoots or publicity tours, and Blackie often went with him. That left Pat, Adele and Gabe covering most of the shifts. Some weeks I thought Pat spent more time at Tiran's house than at home. Adele too, of course, but it never had the same impact on her as it did on Pat.

If Pat needed to spend less time in active fear, that meant he needed to spend less time in Tiran's company. Couldn't Gabe or Adele take up more of the slack? But somehow, I didn't think Tiran would be impressed if I asked him to increase someone else's obligations for my convenience.

An idea started shaping in my mind. But I wanted to know what Tiran's subs actually _did_ for him when they were "on duty", as they called it. I asked around casually, trying to get a sense of what kind of service Tiran expected. Adele answered lightly, saying she generally just ran errands, made drinks, carried messages, waited table. When I asked Gabe, though, he painted a different picture, with sex very much on the menu. I tried to find out if that applied to my father as well, but Gabe seemed hazy on it, or reluctant to say.

I couldn't really think of a way to ask Pat outright whether he had sex with Tiran so for a while I watched closely again, trying to pick it up from the way they interacted. Up till now, all I'd noticed was how edgy Pat got in Tiran's presence. But one day Tiran joined us for lunch looking even more self-satisfied than usual, and Pat seemed oddly happy as well. As we sat around the table afterwards, Curtis launched into a long story and Tiran obviously tuned out. I saw his gaze turn to Pat, who had started clearing the table. When Pat approached his chair, deferential as usual, Tiran reached up with a lazy hand, pulled Pat down toward him, and kissed his mouth. It was a long, lingering, affectionate kiss, and when Pat pressed toward him yearningly, Tiran ran a hand over his jaw with a kind of mild possessiveness.

I shot a glance toward Adele, who watched them without concern. When I turned back, Tiran had released Pat and was smiling at him. Pat looked blissfully happy, but it was Tiran's content, sated expression that most struck me; the look of a lover on the morning after.

Well, that answered my question. I went back to my vaguely formed idea and considered it again in light of this. After a couple more days, I decided I could handle it. Time to approach Tiran.

 

******

 

I still smarted a little from the last time I'd confronted him, so this time I took a different tack by asking for an appointment first. Maybe that would set a better tone.

I left a message on Tiran's comm asking for a meeting, and he returned it readily, suggesting a time the next afternoon. When I showed up at his house at the appointed time I found him outside on one of the terraces with a few people around. I hesitated, wondering how to get him alone, but when he glanced up from his lounge chair and saw me, he sat up.

"Oh, Tom, you wanted to see me. Come on, let's go over to the side deck where it's a little quieter." He picked up his drink. "Sol, bring Tom a soda," he added to Gabe, who I guess was on duty, and led the way around a corner of the house. I followed him, relieved.

The side deck turned out to be smaller and more secluded, with a round café table and two comfortable chairs. Tiran sat down and gestured at the chair across from him for me. He made small-talk, unreadable behind his sunglasses, until Gabe brought my drink. Then, as Gabe left, Tiran took his glasses off and looked at me with slightly wary, maybe just slightly intrigued, curiosity.

"So," he began, "What can I do for you this time, Tom?"

I guess it was too much to hope that he'd forgotten about that other conversation. I considered referencing it more openly but settled on a small nod of acknowledgement and went on with my planned speech. "Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, sir. I wanted to make a proposal."

His eyebrows went up. "What kind of proposal?"

"It's about my dad." I took a sip of my drink and measured his reaction: a slightly irritable impatience replaced the curiosity. I'd expected that, and had my reassurance ready. "I'm not here to argue about how you treat him. I know it's none of my business what kind of arrangement you guys have. I'd just like to fill in for him some of the time."

"Fill in for him?" Tiran stared at me. "I don't understand."

"When he's on duty with you. Or whenever else he might … serve you," I said the word carefully, still not sure exactly what it might include. "I'd like to do it instead of him."

This time Tiran didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, holding his drink, and then put the glass down and deliberately lit a cigarette. Finally he turned to me again, with a steady, neutral look. "Okay," he said seriously. "I'm trying to get it but I still don't. Tell me exactly what you're suggesting and why, please."

I didn't really have any words planned to cover this. "Well, Pat – works for you sometimes, right? I mean, he has shifts where he comes here and does what you tell him. Right? I want to take some of those shifts instead of him. So he can do less. And I don't know if he does anything for you at other times as well, but if he does, then I'd like to take some of that too."

"Okay, wait." Tiran shook his head a little, like he didn't know where to start. He paused, then said, "First of all, Pat doesn't _work_ for me. It's not a job. He's a sub. He follows my orders because he needs to."

"I know that," I said.

"So why would you do it? Do you feel some need to follow orders, Tom?"

"No." I think I said it kind of distastefully. "It's not about that."

He frowned. "It's not a game, Tom."

Did he think the rest of my life had been a game? "I know that," I said again.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, watching me like he hadn't decided yet whether to be pissed off or not. "All right. So why do you want to do this, then?"

"Because I … I want to help out my father."

"Okay," he said, and now he definitely sounded angry, even a little dangerous. "First of all, how do you know your father wants to be helped?" He paused for a minute, letting that sink in. "And why him? I've got plenty of other subs. What about your mother?"

I took a minute to get my thoughts in order before answering. "You're right, sir," I said, speaking more respectfully. It's not that he scared me, but making him angry wouldn't help the negotiations. "I don't know if Pat would even want this. I haven't spoken to him about it because I know I need your permission first. Pat would never do anything you didn't agree to."

He took another drag on his cigarette without speaking, apparently waiting for me to go on before he weighed in again.

"And … as for why Pat," I went on hesitantly. This one I had planned for, but I knew I had to treat it delicately. "With respect, sir. I just think he could use a break."

Tiran flicked his ashes impatiently. "You don't know what you're talking about, Tom. And you said you weren't here to argue."

"I know I don't. And I'm not asking you to change how you treat him. I'm not questioning you. I just – I just worry about Pat. I'm not sure if you … notice. But he gets really anxious when he's with you."

He made a sharp, dismissive gesture. "That's his problem. Not yours. Or mine."

"Come on. Sir. I'm not sure he can sustain it. I'm afraid he's going to have, like, medical issues." I saw Tiran look at me a little more closely so I went on. "What if he has a heart attack or something? I mean, it's not just about you and him. This is about me. I don't want to lose my father. That's why I'm trying to offer something in exchange."

If I read him right, the anger had softened a bit. He seemed to be thinking over what I said before he responded. "Okay," he said after a minute. "I hear you. I'll talk to Dell, see what she thinks. Maybe I could go a little easier on Pat."

"No," I said instinctively. "Don't ask Dell. She won't – look, I'm not asking you to go easier on him. I don't even know if that that would help – you know what's good for him better than me. I just want to … limit the amount of time he spends with that kind of stress. So I'm asking you to take me instead of him."

Again, Tiran didn't answer right away. For a few minutes we sat in silence, as he smoked and looked out over the ocean. It seemed impolite to stare at him so I dropped my gaze, but I was pretty sure he'd started taking me seriously.

He finished his cigarette, and then his drink, before he finally turned back toward me. "Look," he said quietly. "You don't owe me anything, Tom."

I caught his eye, trying not to show any reaction. But I knew what he meant, and it hit close to home. "I'm not doing this out of obligation," I said after a moment. "To you."

He watched me with dark, thoughtful eyes, and after a while a kind of calculation seemed to seep in, like he had started to take my measure, consider the value I might bring to him. He paused again before speaking. "I don't think you know what you'd be getting in to."

"I know." I nodded slightly. "I mean, I know that I don't know."

"It's not just – I mean, it's not all fetching drinks and running errands. I'm a Dom, these are my subs. There's a different aspect to it."

I looked up to meet his eyes. "I understand that. I … " Talking about my past came hard for me. But I made an effort. "I've done it before. When I was younger."

He seemed to stare at me for a long time. Finally he said, "Do you like it, Tom? Are you naturally submissive?"

I almost said _no_ , automatically. Then I remembered Tiran's lie-detector power and caught myself, nuancing my answer more carefully. "I don't think I'm a sub by nature. But I've been both – Dom and sub – and I can … see the appeal of each. I wouldn't say I want to be submissive but I … I don't really mind it."

I could see him listening closely and when I finished he half-nodded. "And do you have any – any ulterior motive in suggesting this? Anything you're not telling me?"

"No."

"Did someone put you up to this? Have you discussed it with _anyone_?"

"No, sir."

He hesitated again, then said quietly, "I expect my subs to provide full service. That can mean ritualized submission, kneeling, kissing my hand or foot, things you might find humiliating. Are you sure you could handle that, Tom?"

"Yes, sir." I figured I might as well start getting into the role now.

He held my gaze, not moving. "I have sex with my subs. Including Pat."

I took care not to react. "I'm okay with that."

There was a pause. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen – till next month."

Tiran let out a long breath and a sudden laugh, breaking the tension. "Not even sixteen? No way, Tommy. Forget about it."

"Sir, I – "

"There's no way. Your parents would never agree. And it's illegal. The social workers would be all over me. And anyway," he added like a sudden afterthought, "I told you before. I'm not interested in children."

I cursed myself for that earlier conversation. "No one needs to know, sir. I promise, I'll make sure – "

He reached out abruptly and put his hand on my forearm, stopping me with a smile. "No thank you, Tom. I hear you mean it right now, but you could always change your mind. I'm not putting myself in the power of a fifteen year old."

_Fuck_. Again, I didn't want to talk about my past, but this called for stronger measures. "Sir … it's not like it would be new to me. I told you I've done this kind of thing before … I mean, years ago. It's really not a big deal for me."

He scrutinized me closely, this time with a touch of amusement. "Tom, do you _want_ to have sex with me? Yes or no?"

He really knew how to use those direct questions in combination with his superpower. I tried briefly to think of a way to hedge my response but couldn't come up with anything easily, so I gave up and spoke the truth. "No. Not especially. But I wouldn't find it objectionable either."

He laughed. "Thanks. That's sweet. But my answer is the same. We're not having sex."

"It's _one_ month," I said, frustration making my voice sharper. "I turn sixteen next month, and you know they changed the consent laws. Sixteen is legal and there's no age-gap rule. Can't you just wait till then?"

He shook his head. "It's still too young. Your parents would hate it, and everyone would disapprove. I don't need the flack."

I sighed audibly. "So that's it? You won't let me do this at all, just because sex is off the table?"

He shifted back to his usual kind of bantering good humour. "Well, it wouldn't be a real substitution then, would it?"

Provoked, I spoke without thinking. "You said this isn't a game, Tiran. It's not a game to me. I don't want to lose my father. I – "

"Okay," he interrupted, squeezing my forearm again. "I'm sorry. You're right." He put his head to one side and studied me for a couple of seconds. "Maybe I could have one sex-free sub. I mean, it's only part time, after all."

Had he been playing me all this time? I didn't care. "Yeah. I'm not –"

"But if you're still around at eighteen!" he cut in, and I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be joking or cautionary. "That's a different story. Remember, I don't really take subs with limitations."

"I haven't proposed any," I pointed out. "It's up to you what you do or don’t do with me."

"Well, it's not a done deal yet. You'd need to get your folks on-side first. Both of them."

I nodded, trying to hide my relief. "I understand."

"Make sure you tell them this was _your_ idea – not mine. Come back and see me when you have their permission. _If_ you get it."

"Yes, sir." I couldn't help smiling. "Thank you."

"Okay." He sat there for a minute looking at me, and I didn't know what to do so I just stayed put. Then he laughed and stood up, and put his hand out to me. "Pleasure doing business with you, Tommy. As always."

I got to my feet and took his hand, remembering again that first time I'd met him. His words might be light and half-mocking, but I thought I heard something under them, and I felt my own sense of satisfaction. "Likewise, sir."

He led the way back to the main terrace, and as I walked behind him I let the victory show in my face. Then I wondered what his face showed.


	17. Chapter 17

All the way home I debated: Dell first, or Pat first? I actually had a lot of confidence in my persuasive ability, but I couldn't quite settle on a strategy for getting both of them to agree in succession. For sure I wouldn't approach the two together. But who did I need to convince first?

In the end I settled on Pat. Dell couldn't veto my proposal if both Pat and Tiran had already agreed. Of course Pat wouldn't officially approve until Dell did, but I believed I could get him to promise not to object if she didn't.

Maybe it seems odd that a father could even consider letting his son make deal like this on his behalf. What kind of ignoble parent would let his child pay the penalty he incurred? But I had a pretty good idea of how to work on Pat.

I started out with the news that his anxiety upset me; that had never occurred to him so it was a bit of a shock at the opening. I went heavy on how painful I found it to see him stressed and unbalanced – how uncomfortable it made me; how much I needed to count on him as a stable figure in my life. Then I stressed the damaging impacts on his health, and told him I lived in fear of losing the only father I'd ever known. By the time I'd finished with him, Pat would have felt like a complete paternal failure if he hadn't agreed to reduce his shifts.  


Of course, like Tiran, his first reaction was to suggest cutting down his hours – without me taking them on. But I pointed out that would just shift more stress to Adele. My problem, I said; my fix.

I told Pat I'd already spoken to Tiran and had his support – that in fact, he'd even agreed to no sex, at least for the next couple of years. And since I had a perfectly innocuous relationship with him, my work would no doubt involve just basic fetching and carrying, errands and messages. Nothing to worry about.

Fortunately Pat lacked Tiran's superpower; if anything he was a bit gullible. My glib speech convinced him that the service I provided Tiran would be entirely unlike his; more like an innocent child's version of his.  


It took two sessions to work on him, but by the end of the second one Pat had agreed to abide by Adele's decision. So on I went to her.  


As usual, she was a much tougher nut to crack. Not only did she think Pat should deal with his own issues, she naturally found the idea of her fifteen year old son serving a thirty-something Dom to be a little disturbing. She figured the social workers would too.

That last point hadn't occurred to me. So as I first concession I suggested waiting a month to start. By then I'd be sixteen and fully emancipated; the social workers couldn't take me away or hold that threat over our heads any longer.

Of course Adele still didn't like it. "Look, Tom," she said, and I could see her casting around for the right way to say this, "I know Tiran is a very attractive man ... "

" _What?_ "

"I mean, he … has a kind of charisma, doesn't he? He's rich, powerful, good-looking – it's natural to find that appealing. To want to be around it."

"Oh, no," I said, trying to stop her.

"And I'm sure you see the rest of us here on the estate, kind of revolving around him. It probably seems like – like that's the way you become a grown-up here. Maybe you want to show us you're an adult. I'm sure it seems strange for people to act like you're a child when – "  


"No, no, no," I cut in impatiently. "It has nothing to do with me liking Tiran, or trying to act grown up. It's about Pat."

"But I've already told you – Pat needs to deal with his problems himself."

"Yeah, well, that's not going to do me any good when he has a nervous breakdown."

"Tom, I don't think you understand." Adele paused and seemed to order her thoughts. "You know Pat's an addict. He's a great person, a wonderful partner and father, as long as his addictions are under control. But that's an active process – he has to work on it all the time."

"Okay," I said. "But he can do that without living in holy terror, can't he?"

"I don't know. Tiran's approach has worked so far."

"I don't see how a bunch of stupid rules help Pat with anything. Those rules are a trap, there's no way he can – "

"I think that's why they work," Adele said, cutting me off. "As long as he needs to concentrate on following Tiran's rules, he can't really think about anything else. They give him a focus. Anyway, the fact is, I can't help Pat, and I can't be responsible for his choices. Neither can you."

"I'm not talking about – " I stopped myself, and took a breath. "Isn't there a difference between taking responsibility and giving him a bit of a break? I'm just saying maybe I could help him cope a little."

" _He_ needs to find a way to cope. That's his job."

I found her imperviousness frustrating. "So you don't care if we lose him?"

"Of course I care." She didn't sound particularly worried. "But I've already come to terms with that, Tom. And I know that if it comes down to it – if Pat has to leave, I'm staying here, with Tiran and you kids."

"That's not – "

She reached over to put her hand on mine, and her voice grew gentle, for the first time. "You weren't here for the worst of it, Tom. I had to confront that possibility a while ago, and now I'm okay with it. I know I can live without him if I have to."

Adele might be okay with it, but that didn't mean I was. I had nothing against her, but Pat was the reason I'd come here. I took my hand away. "That doesn't mean I can," I said after a minute.

"Tom – " she started, trying to sound soothing.

" _I_ need him to be here," I said. "He's not expendable to me."

"I didn't say he was expendable! Of course I – "

"You just said you've made your choice. What about _my_ choice?"

She stared at me. "Tommy, I didn't mean to suggest … "

"I'm not even talking about him leaving." I pressed forward while she was on the defensive. "Of course you're not worried about Tiran kicking him out because you know that's hardly going to happen. And if it did, who knows – maybe I'd go with him." I paused for a second to let that register. "But don't tell me you can't see what's happening to Pat. He's practically falling apart. He's way more likely to drop dead of a heart attack or a stroke than get turfed off the estate." I didn't tell her the number of times I'd seen that happen in my neighbourhood.

"I don't think … "

"Look, I get that you've made your own decision. I'm not arguing about that." It occurred to me I was speaking more bluntly than I usually did. "I'm saying I see a problem with Pat, and I've made a proposal to deal with it that Tiran and Pat are okay with. Why would you try to stop me?"

For a few moments we sat looking at each other. I waited, watching her expression shift gradually from surprise to resistance to resignation.  


"There must be another way," she said slowly. "If you want Pat to … "

"No," I cut in impatiently. "I'm the one that wants Pat to spend less time with Tiran. I'm not putting it on someone else."

She turned away from me a little. "But you're the child," she said. "Pat and I are the adults. We should – "

"Come on, Adele." My words came out more harshly than I'd intended. "I haven't been a child in years, if ever. We both know that. I can play at it, if it makes you feel better. But don't pretend you believe it."

I thought she'd argue or protest, but she didn't; she just stayed quiet for a long time, not looking at me. At last she said slowly, "All right. You're allowed to make your own choices. I guess I have to live with that."

Guilt didn't work on me. I slid my hand over to nudge her arm. "It'll be okay. You'll see."

She turned back to me, looking sad and guarded. Like for the first time she felt a little wary of me. "I hope so, Tommy."

"Thanks," I said, trying to shift my mental framework back to a child's. If it made her more comfortable, I figured I could keep it up a while longer.

 

******

 

In the back of my mind something else bothered me, but I wanted to put that off while I could. First I needed to be sure my proposal was a done deal.

So now it was back to Tiran. I would have sent him a message but he'd said "come back and see me" and it seemed best to follow his instructions.

This time I went over without an appointment, when I thought he'd be home. I found him on a side terrace, finishing breakfast with Uncle Rocky. He looked up, not surprised to see me but not very welcoming either.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," I said, when he seemed to wait for me. "I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to both my parents and they're okay with what I suggested. As long as I start next month, after I turn sixteen. If that's okay with you."

Tiran went back to his breakfast. "Tell your dad I want to see him."

I froze. "What? He's not going to get in trouble, is he?"

"No," Tiran said shortly. When I still stared at him, he added, "I want to hear what he thinks about it. Send your mom too."

"Okay," I said after a moment.

He picked up his comm, obviously dismissing me. "I'll let you know later what I decide."

I left, wondering if I'd done something wrong. But Tiran didn't seem like the type to hold back if he had a problem with me.

After I'd passed the message on to my parents I resisted the temptation to ask how their discussions went. A couple of days later I got a message from Tiran on my comm; it just said to see Blackie about getting added to the schedule when I was ready to start. I sent back polite thanks, and then sat thinking, with the comm in my hand, for a long time.

Finally I got up and went over to the Hawkins place, figuring I couldn't put it off any longer. I found Barry upstairs in his room. Naturally he'd taken over the best space in the house, a large loft on the third floor.

He looked surprised to see me when I knocked and went in. We generally saved my batman duties for the weekend, so during the week I'd only see him if we bumped into each other at the rec centre or outside. I didn't usually come looking.

"Hey. What's up?" Barry asked.

I went in and shut the door behind me, hanging around uneasily beside the door. Barry sat up on the bed with a screen; maybe he'd been doing homework or chatting with someone. He pushed it aside and watched me curiously.

"You have a minute?" I asked.

"Okay. What's wrong? You look worried," he said after a second.

"No," I said. "Well, maybe a bit. I'm thinking maybe I should have asked you before I did this thing."

His eyebrows went up. "What thing?" He laughed suddenly. "What have you done, Tommy? Are you in trouble?"

"No, no … "

He pointed at a chair beside his bed. "Stop pacing, you're making me dizzy. Sit down and spit it out."

I obeyed. "It's just that … You know, I'm kind of worried about my dad."

"Mmm," Barry said sympathetically. "Yeah, that scene was a little awkward wasn't it?"

"It's not just that. I've been worried about him for a while. He seems like he's not really in great shape."

"I know what you mean. He's kind of uncomfortable with Tiran at the best of times, isn't he?"

He'd noticed too? "Yeah," I said, relieved. "That's what I thought. I'm always afraid he's gonna, like, keel over or pass out."

Barry laughed again. "Some people get like that around Tiran. You can't let him scare you."

"Well," I said, thinking about the way he'd said that, "I think my dad maybe has reason to be scared. From what I understand. It seems like there's some kind of history between them."

"Oh yeah. You're right, there was that big thing a couple of years ago. We all thought Pat was out of here. I guess he's been kind of living on borrowed time ever since."

"I think that's what makes him so nervous. And from what I've seen, Tiran's pretty hard on him. Not sure if it's on purpose or what. But it seems to keep Pat right on the edge."

Barry nodded, still sympathetic. "Yeah, it's probably hard on him. So you're worried about him? Did you talk to Ti?"

"Yeah." I stopped, and looked at Barry. "That's what I did."

"And did he agree to go easier on your dad?"

"Well … no. I didn't ask for that," I said. "I asked if I could take over some of his shifts."

There. It was out. Barry stared at me. First in incomprehension, then in disbelief. "You what?"

"Um. I'm going to be substituting for my dad on some of his shifts with Tiran, so he can do less. I think that'll make the stress more manageable, and maybe he won't – "

" _Don't give me–_ " Barry cut in sharply. I stopped, and he shook his head and started again. "You're going to be subbing for Tiran," he said, not quite a question.

Putting it that way took me aback. "Well, not ex—at least. Yeah. I guess so."

"Why?" He stared at me, motionless. I had a sense of precariousness, like everything was teetering, barely in balance, and found myself bracing for the inevitable crash. " _Why_ , Tom?" Barry repeated, and his voice was hard.

"I told you. My dad – "

"Don't waste my time. What – you're telling me this is natural for you? Because I would not have pegged you for a sub, Mertz."

"No," I said quietly. "That's not it."

"Then why?" He had pushed himself back, so he leaned against the headboard of his bed, as though he wanted to get as far away from me as possible. I wanted to pull him forward.

"Barry, I promise I – "

"You've got some kind of designs on him."

"No! Come on, man –"

"You're telling me this is all about your dad? You expect me to believe that? It has nothing to do with – it's just coincidence that – "

"Yes," I said, more quietly now, but firm. "It's about my dad. I have no interest in Tiran."

I saw the spark in his eyes still kindling, and went on quickly. "I mean, for myself. I'm not trying to – to cut in on anyone—anything … " I corrected myself, trailing off, and hesitated, watching him closely. Time to give him an out. "I mean, I know I should have asked you before I signed up for this. It could cut into my time for batman duties. And anyway, I should have consulted with you first; that's what a major is for." I gave him a nervous smile. "Right?"

He didn't smile back. "Then why didn't you?" he said after a moment, all cold, wounded dignity.

"I – I just didn't think about it." I aimed for a helpless look. "I mean, I suggested it kind of spontaneously, without thinking first."

This time he smiled, cynically. "Since when do you do anything without thinking first, Tom?"

Well, at least he was still talking to me. "Okay, I mean – I thought about it, I just didn't … " What could I say? That I didn't want to tell him until it was too late for him to do anything about it? "I had to get Tiran to agree, and then my dad, and then my mom … I just forgot that I answer to you as well."

"Well, _do_ you? Answer to me? Because if this is about trying to get out of – "

"No," I said quickly. "Not at all. I do still answer to you. I'm sorry I screwed up."

"But now you're going to be busy over there all the time. You're going to start telling me you don't have time for – "

"No, not at all." I tried cajoling. "It's not like that. The thing with Tiran is nothing. It'll just be a couple hours, once or twice a week, and I won't be doing much. It's not like with you at all. I bet I'll barely talk to him."

Barry got off the bed and paced across the room to the window, still with that offended pride. Again, I had the sense of him wanting to get away from me. He looked out, and I waited, and finally he spoke with his back to me.

"He doesn't respect subs, you know," he said. He turned around and leaned against the windowsill, holding himself with a kind of theatrical style that sometimes came out in him during moments of high emotion. "People try that all the time, but if you want to get his attention … you really need to stand up to him."

I tried not to smile, or at least, to smile in a self-deprecating way. "I'm not trying to get his attention. That's for … someone more ballsy than me."

Finally he smiled back. Slightly. "You're pretty ballsy, Van Mertz."

I got up and went over to him, pitching my voice low and coaxing. "Really, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by this, I promise. You can – you know, punish me for not asking permission if you want."

He still leaned against the window, with a wry look now. "Sure. You can carry my books home tomorrow."

"I'd be happy to," I said, and reached out to hit his shoulder very gently, like in slow motion. "So … are we okay then?"

"Yeah," he said, with something more like his real smile at last. "Okay. I'll believe you this time."

As I walked across the lawn later, heading back to my own house, I realized I'd just confirmed what I'd always suspected: Barry definitely had some kind of interest in Tiran. I wondered again how that might work out.


	18. Chapter 18

I had left Barry and was heading home when Uncle Paul approached. He came out from one of the trails in the little wooded area and fell into step beside me as he often did. I half-expected him to say something about my new position with Tiran, but as usual he seemed more attuned to the kids here and at school than to the adults on the estate. Today he wanted to ask me about Jeannie again.

"How's she doing at school? Her dad's worried about her. Is she dating anyone?"

"No," I said. I knew what he meant. Jeannie had grown up in another country and her father was oddly conservative, always afraid she'd get with a boy. She and her father had frequent run-ins, which I often heard about.

"What about you, Tom?" Paul asked, more pointedly. Unlike the other adults, he seemed to have a kind of mistrust of me. "Are you having sex with her?"

"No," I said again. It happened to be true, though I would have said the same thing either way.

Jeannie was still pretty much my only female friend, but I hadn't slept with her. Neither of us dated, as far as I could tell about her. By this time the older kids at school had graduated from beer bashes on the beach to downtown clubs and the party scene. I went along with them at times but that world usually bored me – I couldn't help seeing it the way I would have in my past life, mentally estimating cash, costs, profits. The rest of the time I'd be trying to get out of the way of the random fights and drama that always seem to crop up at those places. I tried to avoid trouble but Lance and Steve liked to go looking for it, and they'd try to draw me in with them. Usually I could extricate myself harmlessly enough but once in a while someone seriously provoked me, and then I'd hire Dodge later to take care of them.

I never saw Jeannie when we went out, though we often ran into other kids from school. Her father probably never let her out of the house. Of course I often hooked up with other girls, and boys too, in the scene. Since that seemed like the easiest way to get sex without bringing anyone home I had learned to slip off into back rooms or alleys whenever I saw the chance. I still never got involved though; that just seemed unnecessarily complicated.

Paul had paused, like he was debating whether to believe me. Finally he spoke reluctantly. "Okay. I don't mean to intrude. But, you know – be careful. I think she's having a hard time."

To change the subject, I asked, "Where are you headed?"

He nodded at the big house in the distance. "Tiran's place. I've got some work to do with the accountant."

"Oh – about the Foundation?" I figured this was my chance to ask. "I still don't get that whole thing."

He glanced at me. "What's to get?"

"Well … what you do."

"I manage the Foundation."

"But what does that mean? You take care of people you don't know?"

"Take care of people?" He stared at me. "I can barely look after myself. Why would I try to take care of anyone else?"

"I thought that's what the Foundation does."

He snorted. "Maybe Tiran thinks so. I don't try to _help_ people. I try to get them the resources we owe them so they can solve their own problems."

"But who's _they_?"

"People who live in countries we've raped and pillaged." He sounded angry. "I hope no one's telling you it's a charity."

"No one's telling me anything," I said. "That's why I'm curious."

"Well, it's not about doing any favours. Where do you think money comes from? We don't live like this _here_ without increasing other people's misery somewhere else. But of course no one wants to admit that, do they?"

I couldn't help thinking about my old neighbourhood when he said that. "Yeah," I said.

"The Foundation is supposed to return some tiny percentage of resources to the people they came from. Maybe in a different form."

We reached my backyard and I might have had more questions but Paul didn't look like he wanted to stop so I let it go, and he went on toward the main house.

As I watched him walk away, briskly and with purpose, I thought he had a different type of stride than most people did here. Lately I'd been watching vids set in way older times – since I'd pretty much mastered the current language I started pushing myself with more formal speech patterns, and I found I kind of liked the old stories. Uncle Paul made me think of one of those knights from the days of chivalry – always riding off on some quest, trying to right wrongs, fix problems, get things done.

My dad, on the other hand, reminded me of this one character, Ivanhoe, who's supposed to be the hero of his story but actually winds up wounded and sitting out most of the action. Tiran would be one of those despotic, all-powerful kings who follow their own fancies and play with people's lives. And Uncle Paul would be someone like Quentin Durward, the noble adventurer whose "sense, firmness and gallantry" wins the day.

 

******

 

That night I got a call from Uncle Rocky, who I guess had heard the news about me from Tiran. Rocky said he wanted to be sure my proposal had been totally voluntary, and that I'd be comfortable with everything Tiran would expect of me. I didn't mind his questions since it gave me chance to ask a few of my own. We had a good long chat and by the end of it I thought I had a better idea of what would be involved in serving Tiran.

I'd noticed that Uncle Rocky had a different kind of relationship with Tiran than my parents or Gabe – more jocular, more equal; like they were friends with occasional mostly playful power struggles. Rocky came across as less afraid of Tiran than the others. I remembered what Barry had said about standing up to Tiran and thought he might be on to something.

Anyway, Uncle Rocky filled me in on how things worked and – what I hadn't realized – how he and the other subs kind of worked together to support each other. He told me to let him know if I had any problems or needed help with anything, and ended by kind of welcoming me into the club. I wanted to laugh at that, but in truth I found it oddly reassuring.

I didn't start with Tiran right away, since we'd agreed to wait till I turned sixteen. Meanwhile, the batman thing went on with the other kids, and everything seemed fine with Barry. As the bugs in the system got worked out, he and I spent less time sorting out other peoples' problems and more just hanging out and talking.

Barry had started taking an interest in the movie scene lately, which didn't surprise me since the film industry was the biggest thing going on in this part of the country. And when I realized, after a while, that Tiran dabbled in production and deal-making and considered himself a bit of a movie mogul, it made even more sense.

As I spent more time with Barry, I started to understand him better. He liked power, I realized; he was drawn to it. Not like a sub is attracted to powerful people because he wants to be dominated. Actually I didn't think Barry was submissive at all. He might capitalize on being young and kind of sweet as a way of increasing his own charm; he might even be willing to play a sub's role for a while; but that would only be biding his time. Barry valued power and authority in others because he wanted it himself. And if he didn't have enough of it yet – if he was too young and dependent to control more than a handful of siblings so far – then he wanted to watch it, be near it, influence it.

It occurred to me sometimes that all those things Dell had said to me about Tiran's wealth and fame being attractive kind of applied to Barry. I don't mean that I thought he had some kind of childish crush on Tiran – I'm sure he liked Tiran well enough, but for Barry the real attraction was power.

Meanwhile, Randall and I continued to bond. We worked easily together, especially on school things. I think he actually helped me more than I helped him. But even better than helping, he often quietly hung out with me while I worked, or stayed around to watch vids with me when I let him. Even if neither of us talked much, it was kind of nice just to have the company. I still spent a lot of time alone but having Randall and Phillip around really cut back on the isolation.

I'd made progress at school. Though I still worked mainly one-on-one with the teachers, we'd moved on to what they called pre-literacy work – learning the alphabet, letter sounds and the mechanics of spelling and punctuation. The school year was ending, and they planned to start me in a small class at the beginning of the next year. The slow pace sometimes frustrated me, but I could see some movement and that made it easier.

Dodge, on the other hand, became more troublesome. He'd finally clued in to the potential in his situation, and started making threats along with requests for more back pay and higher wages. I had enough experience to know that placating him would just lead to ever-escalating demands, even if he himself didn't realize that yet. For some reason I found myself reluctant to take the obvious next step so I stalled him off for as long as I could, but he'd never been too smart and it's always hard to make stupid people see their own self-interest. Finally, as my sixteenth birthday loomed, I decided I couldn't wait any longer.

I arranged to meet Dodge at a coffee shop just outside South Elsen – the one where I'd first gone with Pat, actually. It was easy enough to lure him there with the promise of a payoff. When we met, I handed over some cash and let him fill me in on local news; apparently Kip was still hanging on to the franchise, though just barely. As we walked out of the coffee shop I told stories of my new life to distract Dodge while we crossed into the old neighbourhood. He didn't notice as I led him down a quiet alley just inside the border, and it only took a minute to finish him off. I hadn't done that since I left the place almost two years ago, and though it seemed odd and unfamiliar now, I was relieved to find I still had the skills. I left the body there where no one would care, and took transit back home before anyone noticed I had left.

 

******

 

A couple of weeks later I turned sixteen. This was a very big deal. Being legally an adult and able to act for myself meant Social Services no longer had any jurisdiction over us, which made my parents jubilant. I guess they'd always been afraid I'd screw up on something and the social workers would try to take me away. Now we didn't need to worry about that ever again.

"So how about it, Tommy?" Pat asked, as my parents started celebrating over breakfast on my sixteenth birthday. "Are you going to party all out now, make up for your lost youth in some kind of crazy binge of clubbing, drugging and fighting? That's what Gabe did right after he got emancipated."

He said it jokingly but I heard the edge behind it. They all seemed to have this kind of hidden wariness about me – as though they didn't want to admit it but couldn't help waiting for me to do something explosive or destructive at any minute.

I shrugged in response to Pat. I had no plans to lose control now, just because the social workers were out of the picture. Why should I? I'd spent the first part of my life dealing with trouble I couldn't avoid; why would I go looking for it now when I didn't have to? I had a sweet set-up here and no motivation to mess with it. Besides, my style was more subtle than they seemed to realize; when I needed to make a point, I could do it with finesse.

"But do you, um … _want_ me to leave?" I asked after a minute.

Pat laughed and squeezed my hand. "Of course not, Tommy. We want you to stay! And now we don't have to be afraid of losing you."

I lowered my fork while I considered this. Might as well take the opportunity to clarify some things. "But not forever," I said. "You don't want me to stay forever."

I saw Pat and Adele kind of exchange looks. "Well," Adele said, growing a bit more serious. "I guess that depends."

"On what?" I asked.

"I guess on what you're doing. I mean, we want you to take all the time you need. If you want to finish your education or do some training, or you can't find the kind of work you want or the right situation or whatever … then of course you should stay here for as long as you need to."

"So when _wouldn't_ I be able to stay here?"

"Well, I suppose if you weren't doing anything … " Pat said reluctantly. "I mean, if we thought you were just using this place as a crutch to avoid anything else … "

"Remember," Adele put in, "You aren't –"

"I know," I cut in, forestalling the inevitable speech about the Will. "So basically as long as you think I'm doing something productive I can stay around?"

"Sure."

"And what if we don't agree on what's productive? What if you don't like my choices?"

Dell laughed sort of sheepishly. "I think you've got us trained on that, Tommy. We know you make your own decisions, and you don't really ask us to approve them."

"Yeah, but … what if I, you know, make _bad choices_?" I didn't really have anything in mind, but I'd heard a lot of talk about bad choices related to the Hawkins kids, and I kind of wanted to know where my folks stood on it.

"Like what? Breaking the law?"

"Or like … hanging out with the wrong people, or staying out for days, or … I don't know, no more substance testing now, right?"

Adele and Pat glanced at each other again. "Well," Adele answered slowly, "I guess we'd have to figure those things out as we went along. Like all parents. I'm not going to give you a list of kicking-out offenses."

"Yeah, it's all negotiable," Pat said, less hard-ball than Adele as usual. "And no matter what you do or where you go, Tommy – we'll always be your family. You'll have a home with us if you need it."

For myself, I celebrated my liberation by quitting therapy. Adele made a half-hearted and totally unconvincing suggestion that it might be helpful for me to continue but I didn't even need to think about it. And she didn't really object.

Something else also occurred to me about turning sixteen, but I kept it to myself. Legally, now, I could be held accountable for anything I did. I didn't know if my past could still be used against me, but I did know that as an adult I could be charged, arrested, locked up. I'd seen that living on the estate didn't give us complete immunity; Lance had already been convicted of minor charges and though he hadn't gone to jail, they told him he could the next time he screwed up. And jails all over the country were full of people who had grudges against me for good reason.

But to be honest I still didn't really understand all the legal rules. I mean, I'd never paid much attention to them. In the old days, laws didn't matter; here, I generally just relied on keeping under the radar. Of course I realized that killing a person probably broke the law, but short of that I couldn't really be sure.

By this time I had a vague understanding of concepts like good and bad, right and wrong, but I couldn't say I'd operationalized them. And even where I did sort of get the difference, I had no real idea of how good or bad acts related to legal or illegal acts. I figured there must be some connection between what people generally considered bad and what broke the law, but I was still a bit murky on both. Now more than ever, I'd have to either be good or be careful.

A week or two after my birthday I went to see Blackie about getting added to the duty schedule. He told me more about how things worked, and I took my first shift a few days later.

It was a bit anti-climactic. Tiran barely seemed to notice me that first day. I spent most of my shift on what was called "the mat" in his great room, where the sub on duty waited when they had nothing else to do; and much of the time that day Tiran wasn't even around.

So I kind of eased into it. Over time I learned more of the conventions – what Tiran expected, how to anticipate his instructions, what to do proactively and when to wait for orders. Like, I didn't need to be told to get behind the bar and start making drinks when he came in with company, or to start serving or clearing tables at meal-times. When he went outside to the terrace I'd follow without being told, but when he left the house and didn't tell me to come along, I waited on the mat.

I also picked up the transition protocol the other subs had developed – what to do at the end of a shift to make things ready for the next person, how to arrive a couple minutes early for a new shift, and what kind of information got exchanged when two subs crossed over. Everyone always wanted to know what kind of mood Tiran had been in, and whether there'd been any blow-ups earlier.

I had a few evening and overnight shifts, and I wondered about those at little at first. But it turned out that Gabe covered most of Tiran's more intimate service – waking him in the morning and getting him ready for bed at night. For the rest of us, overnight duty mainly meant waiting around outside the room to run errands or bring up breakfast.

Tiran had a cook who covered the main meals and social dinners, but with his erratic, unpredictable schedule, the cook couldn't always be ready for him. Often she'd leave dishes partially prepared so the sub on duty could finish them up in the little kitchen off the great room and then serve. Once the cook realized I had some competence in this area, she gave me more flexibility, often leaving prepped ingredients and letting me decide how to serve them.

After a couple of months Tiran still mostly took a hands-off approach with me, but I did get a taste of his more demanding side. I hadn't realized he could be so capricious – changing moods on a dime, shifting from easy-going to curt and impatient, or from benevolent to harsh and demanding. I learned, like the others did, how to show submission to forestall a display of power; to kneel or speak more humbly when I found him in an imperious or petulant temper. And there came the inevitable moments when I had to kiss his foot or accept a slap without protest, even with murmured thanks. Pride was a luxury I'd lost early on but, even so, when I served Tiran I sometimes found myself thinking of Kip with renewed respect.

The subs held regular meetings to compare notes, review the schedule and work out issues that came up. I actually kind of enjoyed hanging out during these discussions even if I didn't participate much; they had an air of camaraderie and shared purpose. No one outside the group of us really understood what it meant to work as Tiran's sub – I realized now why it had been hard for me to find out what serving Tiran meant; once you did it, you realized it couldn't very well be explained.

Despite what I'd said to Adele, I did find that working for Tiran made me feel more grown up. I got to know the adults on the estate, and like my parents I spent more time over at the big house. Gradually I grew more familiar with what went on there, the gossip and news of Tiran's world, the issues and interaction with his subs and friends. And just like with the kids, I found that some of the adults were smart, sophisticated and easy to deal with, while others were annoying, petty or overly-entitled.

Of course I still hung out with the kids as well. I did my time with Barry and Randall, joined the others at the rec centre or the beach, kept up my workouts and my sail boarding, joined in the group sports games, and sometimes went out in the evening with the Hawkins boys and our friends.

As time went on Barry seemed to get over his annoyance about my new role with Tiran. He'd always taken a lot of pleasure in my strength; like the more power I had, the more pride he took in controlling me. It had occurred to me that being a part-time sub might kind of diminish me in his eyes – make me look weaker, maybe. I could see how he might not like something that took away from my status.

On the other hand, Tiran seemed to take a similar kind of satisfaction in his authority over me; I think he sort of liked to show me off in public. Sometimes he'd take me out with him and then find a way to casually demonstrate my strength and his power over me. So it was kind of in his own self-interest to keep me looking good. Meanwhile, taking on shifts gave me more access to him, and after all access is a form of power. I think Barry slowly became reconciled to my new role and maybe even came to see it as actually adding to my stature, especially compared to the other kids, more than diminishing it.

Not surprisingly, Barry had an in interest in how things worked at Tiran's house and asked a lot of questions about who did what and how the various adults got along. He didn't straddle the two worlds – the world of the kids and the world of the adults – quite as much as I did, but I had a sense of him being kind of poised to make a move, like he had a foot raised and was just about ready to take a step into that other life. I didn't mind filling him in with what I knew.

Myself, I already had a foot in both camps. And while I still appreciated the stress-free life of my first childhood, I didn't mind the other life either. I kind of liked the feeling of carrying my weight in the adult world.


	19. Chapter 19

The next part of my story isn't very pretty; _less_ pretty, maybe I should say. It's hard to describe everything, and some of the details I'm a little hazy on. But I'll do my best to tell the truth as far as I can remember it.

By now I'd been at the estate for almost two years, and we were coming up to the end of school for the summer. People started talking about this event called a _prom_ , which is apparently some ancient school ritual dating back hundreds of years. As usual, I didn't pay much attention to the kids talking about their social lives, but people kept asking if I was going to this prom. Specifically, they wanted to know if I would be "taking Jeannie".

I finally got curious enough to ask about it, and of course the other kids were happy to fill me in. Surprisingly, the older boys seemed to take it seriously, and apparently the adults at the estate made a big deal out of it too.

"This isn't a classic prom," Barry explained, "Because it's not just for juniors and seniors. Our school's too small, so they open it to all grades."

"You can go stag if you want," Lance said, "But if you've got your eye on someone fine it's prime opportunity." He elbowed me pointedly. "Our folks'll spring for hotel rooms and all that."

"Last year I got Skye Lopez up there," Steve put in eagerly. "But then she wouldn't let me fuck her."

"Who'd blame her?"

"Fuck off, Lance. I still got blown, that's better than you did!"

So it seemed the excitement was mainly about getting laid. To the Hawkins kids, sex wasn't such a big deal, but getting it from the highest-status girls meant everything.

"You should take Jeannie," Lance said, elbowing me again, harder this time. I moved away from him, to the other side of the pool table.  We were in the rec centre, as usual.

"Why? I'm not dating her."

"Yeah, but she's grade. You just gotta make a move."

I leaned over the table to line up my shot. When I stood up, I saw Barry watching me with friendly eyes.

"Seriously, Tom. You could do a lot worse. And you guys are friends, right?"

"Yeah," I admitted. I still didn't like sharing details about my personal life.

"So seize the moment. Here's the perfect opportunity."

I dismissed it all at the time, but the banter told me what I hadn't realized – that speculation about Jeannie and me was rife at all levels. That made me think about it more later. I still didn't see the need for an actual girlfriend, but apparently having one could impact my status, and that might not be a bad thing. Jeannie and I got along fine, I liked her well enough, and if the boys rated her high, maybe it wouldn't hurt to consider a shift in relationship.

The prom talk kept escalating. I had no intention of doing anything about it at first, but as time went on I kind of decided I could deal with it if I had to. The more I tuned into the boys' chatter, the more I heard about Jeannie; I hadn't realized that befriending her would create expectations. I'd always been conscious of appearances, and I gradually came to understand that not showing up with Jeannie at the prom would be widely seen as a failure.

One Wednesday evening in late spring, just a couple of weeks before the end of school, I met Jeannie at the kids' beach and we went for a walk along the shore, as the sun went down and the moon came up. I remember she wanted to tell me about her troubles at home and how her dad had over-reacted to some minor transgression – getting in late or something like that. Even to meet me here she'd had to sneak out of her house.

I commiserated and let her ramble on for a while before I turned the subject to the upcoming prom.

"Oh god," she said, half-laughing, "My dad would freak out if I wanted to go to that."

"Don't you?" I asked. "Want to go?"

"Oh, I don't know." She didn't seem to be thinking about it much. "I've got bigger things to worry about."

We had reached a quiet area away from the main beach, at the base of a high sea cliff, and we parked ourselves on some flat sand, leaning back against the rock face and looking out over the faintly glowing water.

"Everyone seems to think we're going together," I said, after a pause.

She looked at me, surprised and a bit amused. "I hope you're setting them straight," she said.

I ran a hand through the sand beside me and thought about that. "I was," I said. "But … then I started thinking, maybe we should go."

" _What_?" She stared at me with laughing eyes. "The prom? You and me?"

"Well, why not? I mean, it seems like a big deal."

She shrugged disdainfully. "For a bunch of privileged mainstream brats, maybe."

"Yeah." I waited a couple of minutes before going on. "But still. Just to keep them quiet."

"You can go. I'm not stopping you."

"I can't go alone."

"Why not?" She shot me a little glance. "Since when do you care what the assholes think?"

I bit back a couple of responses. For one thing, the expectations seemed pretty universal. And for another, I knew from experience that a finely calibrated reputation can be the best way of reducing daily harassment.

"I just know that people expect me to bring you," I said finally. "Showing up without you isn't going to help."

Now she frowned, looking irritated. "I don't get it. You want people to think we've got something going on?"

"They already think that."

"So why aren't you correcting them?"

It seemed to me she had the wrong end of the stick, in some way. I moved away from the cliff and turned around, so that I faced her. "Why should I?"

She spoke with elaborate deliberateness. "Because we _don't_ have something going on?"

"Maybe we should." I leaned forward, putting my hands flat on the cliff wall on either side of her shoulders.

"Ew, Tommy!" she said, laughing, sliding away. But I left my hands where they were so she couldn't move too far, and when she turned her head back toward me she looked troubled. "You're not serious," she said after a moment.

"Why not? It kind of makes sense."

"But … I don't … " I could hear her lowering her voice, making it gentler. " … I don't feel that way about you, Tommy."

I wondered what that had to do with it. "That's okay," I said after a moment. "It's not about that. We just have to, you know … keep up appearances."

The softness in her eyes disappeared. "What are you saying? We should have sex because people expect us to?"

_Basically, yeah._ "Well," I said out loud, "Kind of."

She started to slide away again. "I don't think so, Tom. Thanks for the romantic seduction though."

I remember being frustrated that she didn't seem to be getting it. "I'm not trying to be romantic. I just need you to help me out with this."

"Why should I?"

"I'm tired of dealing with the comments."

"Then stop hanging around with me!" She spoke angrily now, and tried to move out from inside my arms, but I held her in. "It's your problem, not mine."

"Then I'd just look worse. Come on." I started to add, "It's no big deal," but I guess it occurred to me that wouldn't help. Better to just show her. I leaned forward to kiss her mouth, but she turned her head away.

"Stop that, Tom," she ordered.

"You're not even trying." This time I put my hands on either side of her face so she couldn't move away.

"Tom—" She reached up to grip my forearms but of course she couldn't budge them. When I moved my mouth away I heard the first trace of fear join the anger in her voice. "No. _No_."

After that I worried about her screaming so there were no more words. I held a hand over her mouth as I pressed her against the side of the cliff. She twisted and fought, tried to bite my hand, kick, scratch. But I'd done a lot more than this with my bare hands.

Every now and again, not often, I think back on that evening, trying to figure out what was going on in my head. I can call up the picture in my mind, the small struggling girl and the boy with broad shoulders and brawny arms straddling her, as though I were watching, hovering just above. But all I remember thinking at the time is that she'd see what I meant after it was over.

It didn't last long, and she gave up fighting by the end of it. When I finished I rolled over and for a minute we both lay still in the sand. Eventually I pushed myself up and reached down to fix my clothes, then looked out over the ocean for a while. I think that's when I first had an inkling that this might be hard to take back.

"Jeannie," I said finally, looking down at her. She had her eyes closed, but when I spoke to her she opened them. And then I couldn't say anything for a moment.

She leaned up, her movements slow and sore, and pulled on her clothes while I watched, trying to figure out what to do next.

When she stood up I reached out to put a hand on her arm. "Jeannie—" I wanted say something along the lines of, "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Or point out that the line had been crossed now and we might as well go along with it. I remember thinking I could be very receptive to whatever preferences she had. And that I should probably wait a couple of days before mentioning the prom again.

She shook my hand away as though she barely noticed me, and started walking slowly along the shore, back to the main beach. I almost got up to follow her, but in the end I stayed put and watched her go, thinking it might be better to follow up later. Her outline disappeared slowly in the deep shadows of the cliff.


	20. Chapter 20

The next day Jeannie didn't show up for school. I thought about calling her but in the end I didn't. I figured I'd see her soon.

That evening, after dinner, I went out for a walk in my usual spot, the wooded area between our house and Uncle Paul's. The trees had filled out by now and the little grove was thick and green and very private. It had small clearing in the middle, where I'd sometimes park myself against a tree and let the foliage form a roof above me.

Today I was too restless to stay still. I rambled through the narrow trails that ran among the trees, in and out of the clearing and along the shoreline where the big rocks stood against the ocean's edge. I remember having a vague sense that something needed fixing, and wondering how to go about it, but nothing really came to mind.

Then I heard footsteps on one of the paths nearby – rapid, urgent, insistent steps. Like someone was looking for me.

I stepped out into the open clearing, just as Uncle Paul did the same from another trail.

"Tom," he said, stopping abruptly. His face looked hard, tight, controlled. I couldn't read the expression but something was obviously up.

"Were you – looking for me?" I asked.

"Yes. I need to talk to you." He stood at the edge of the clearing, watching me. "What do you know about Jeannie?"

I'm sure my eyes flickered a little. "She wasn't at school today," I offered after a moment.

"Why not?" he demanded. And then almost immediately he added sharply, "You know, don't you?"

I stared at him, my mind turning as I tried to figure this out. It seemed like Uncle Paul could barely contain himself.

"I – " I paused, and then, for some reason, took the plunge. "I have an idea. Is she okay?"

He didn't answer right away. His face contorted slightly with the effort of holding himself in, and this time I thought I saw a flash of repugnance before he covered it up. He started walking toward me, across the clearing, nearer and nearer, until he stood right in front of me. I wanted to take a step back but forced myself to hold my ground. Finally he stopped, so close I had to tilt my head backwards to look up at him. Way up; I remember noticing again how tall and wiry he was.

When he finally spoke he ground out his words like they came from between flat stones. " _What did you do to her, Tom_?"

I know I could have resisted. I could have shrugged, shook my head, mumbled "nothing" like I so often did. But something about the taut urgency in his clenched jaw, the pent-up emotion that now looked to me something like fury, made me say more. "I had sex with her," I said.

He pushed me suddenly, his hands on my chest, and the surprise made me fall back; he took a step forward and pushed again and I took another step back, till I felt the rough bark of a tree behind me. Though Paul had a good nine or ten inches of height over me, he had nothing like my bulk, and it was obvious I could take him in any kind of physical struggle. But something stopped me from making a move. I wanted to know what was going on.

"Did she want to?" Paul growled.

I hesitated, trying to get my balance on the ground and in my mind. He was up in my face now, no longer trying to contain himself.

"I'm asking you," he said, biting off each word. "Did she _want_ to have sex with you?"

I shook my head, barely perceptibly. "No."

This time I had braced myself for his reaction. He shoved me again, fingers hard and fleeting on my chest, an instinctive movement of repulsion, like he just wanted to get me away from him. With the tree behind me there was nowhere for me to go.

"You raped her," Paul said.

_Rape_ – I barely knew that word; it would never have occurred to me to use it. But when he said it, I realized he was right.

I tried to reach for his arm, to get his attention. There didn't seem to be any point in admitting or denying what he already knew. "Is she okay?" I asked again.

He hit me. I saw him swing and pressed my head against the tree to absorb the shock. His fist landed on my jaw but I hardly noticed that, because he spoke again.

"She killed herself."

 

******

 

_The boy against the tree looked blank. He lifted his hands slightly, once, then lowered them. "No," he said faintly._

_The tall, skinny man had turned away but now he spun back. "_ **No** _? No what? No she didn't kill herself? But she did. Hung herself from the closet rail. Her father found her this afternoon." The man's feet kept moving, pacing in small futile circles as though he couldn't hold himself still. "Or no you didn't rape her? No, you're not responsible for this?" He stopped in front of the boy, his narrow, vulpine face compressed with loathing and rage. "Go ahead. Tell me you're not."_

_But the boy didn't respond. Couldn't say no, didn't know how to say yes._

_The man closed a fist around the boy's shirt and pulled him forward, close to him, up to his face. "I don't hear you denying it," he said, voice like ground glass._

_"I – I don't," the boy started, and stopped._

_"I knew it was you." The man threw the boy away from him, the tree shaking as the heavy body landed against it. The boy reached back to grip the rough bark of the trunk, trying to steady himself._

_"Everyone else here_ **believes** _in you," the man said, mocking and bitter. He took a step backwards, looking at the boy, and spoke distinctly, one syllable at a time. "Your parents, the others. They don't want to see it. But you and I know the truth, don't we? You're a monster."_

_The boy shut his eyes. When he opened them, the man still stared at him, face suffused with revulsion and a kind of slow spreading certainty. For a fleeting moment the boy could feel the same knowledge spread through himself._

_"Yes," he said._

_The man hit him, driving his fist into the boy's stomach this time, and as the boy started to double over the man swung again, fist crashing against cheekbone. The boy fell forward, onto his hands and knees, at the base of the tree._

_"Are you proud of it?" the man hissed down at him. "All those people thinking you're some poor victim of circumstances, trying to make a fresh start for yourself, when really … "_

_The boy gave his head a rough shake, not looking up, not moving. His hands, flat against the earth, held his back horizontal to the ground, trapezius muscles bulging under the fabric of his shirt._

_Above him the man paced around his body, turning away and then back, circling like a frustrated pugilist. "Stand up!" He kicked at the boy, first impatient, then more ferociously. "Come on, I thought you're so tough! Is all that muscle just for holding girls down? Why not defend yourself against an old man" – his booted foot swung up suddenly against the boy's ribs with bone-crunching force – "who feels sick just looking at you?"_

_The boy's elbows bent and his shoulders collapsed against the ground. He lay still for a moment, as the man continued to lash and jab at him, then pushed slowly up with his hands till he reached his knees and leaned back, shaking his head again. "No," he said._

_The man growled and seized a handful of the boy's hair, forcing his head upward. "Fight back! I know you can, and if you don't I am going to beat the motherfucking life out of you. Do you have any idea what this means?"_

_"Do it," the boy said thickly, his words barely audible. "I won't – "_

_"Now I have to tell Pat and Dell about you." The man shook the boy's head in frustrated rage, then flung him away again in disgust. "I always knew about you but I hoped they'd never need to find out. How do you think Pat's going to take it when he finds out he has a—a_ **rapist** _for a son? And that's not all, is it? He never wanted to see you for what you are – what you've been doing all this time."_

_The boy dragged himself back to his knees. He lifted his hands instinctively to steady himself, then stopped and pushed them down flat on his thighs as the man rushed on, words punctuated with kicks and blows. The man would pull him up with one hand to hit him with the other, then throw him away, only to grab him back again a second later. "Now they have to know everything – and the police too. You think I won't tell them? You don't get a free pass forever. Jeannie's dead, Tom. I'm not covering up what you did to her."_

_The boy let his body absorb the blows like a scarecrow. He felt his mind spin helplessly with nothing to latch onto, thoughts rolling and tumbling like balls in a revolving basket._ **His parents – knowing everything – what he really was. Police – courts – jail … Nothing left for him here … all of it lost ...**

_And in between his shapeless thoughts, the man's voice. Not what he said but the way he said it, the words melting together into a pool of outrage, disgust, abhorrence – a normal person's response to the boy, to what he really was. As the stream of words poured out the boy caught strange fleeting glimpses of what seemed like another dimension, forming and re-forming patterns like a kaleidoscope. He couldn't make sense of them at first, then recognized fragments of his life, only different. Was this how the man saw them? Old memories, familiar images – suddenly they revolted him._

_The boy shook his head and fought back to the surface, turning his face up, trying to locate the source of the violence, the assault on everything he knew. His eyes must have swollen shut; his old vision had left him. "No," he said. The sound seemed to come from far away. "Don't. Don't tell Pat."_

_Above him, the dark figure loomed in the spreading dusk.  The man made a sound like a grunt, pausing in his attack. "Too late. I'm not going to protect you."_

_The boy raised his hands in surrender. "Please. You can – do anything to me. But don't tell Pat."_

_"He needs to know what he brought home." The man barely got the words out, his voice strangled with repugnance._

_After that the boy stopped talking, like he'd already stopped fighting. His thoughts whirled on while his body waited, resigned, for it to be over._

 

******

 

I'm not sure when Paul left that night. I remember he stopped and started again several times, turning away like he wanted to erase the sight of me and then circling back like he couldn't let it go. By the end I'd lost all sense of time, though I know for some of it we were lit by moonlight.

Even after he'd gone for good I stayed on the ground, not moving, only half aware of being alone. Finally I forced myself up to a sitting position, took in a long painful breath, vomited a couple of times. I felt around my chest and stomach and figured out the damage was probably just one fractured rib and a whole lot of bruises. The blood I saw on my shirt came from my face, a split lip and bleeding nose, nothing so serious. Leaning back against the tree that had supported me through it all, the trunk now rough and slightly sticky, I left my legs splayed out in front of me on the ground, tilted my head back to slow the blood still running from my nose, and waited.

How long did I have? I wondered for a while, calculating the time it would take Paul to get to our house, rouse my parents, fill them in. How much talking before someone came to find me? And what would they do then? Straight to the police? If I knew Pat and Dell, they'd insist on taking me to a hospital, getting Paul's damage cleaned up, before they brought in the cops. Either way, I'd never spend another night in the bedroom that had been my refuge these last two years.

I drifted in and out of sleep, still waiting. No one came. Maybe Paul had gone home for the night and would see my parents in the morning. It didn't really matter. Sooner or later I'd pay the price. At least I understood now what I was paying for.

The knowledge came back to me in jagged fragments, combined with the memory of Paul's virulent response. I thought back on that scene with Jeannie and felt thin pinpricks of unfamiliar emotion. I couldn't name the feeling, but I knew it had something to do with Paul.

My mind returned to those flashes I'd seen earlier, Paul's voice – that sense of shifting perception. I could almost call it up again. Like some new lens had been added to my vision so that now I saw the world through two pieces of glass, each twisting in different directions and not quite aligned, refracted light bending one way and then another.

When I looked back at moments from my past, the double glass distorted my memories, turned them into fuzzy images that moved in and out of focus. But every now and then the two lenses aligned and a picture flashed briefly into sharp relief – only strange and unfamiliar, hideous in its new clarity.

Slowly the sun came up, the leaves and brush around me turning pale and yellow, and then deepening into bright rich green, but I didn't notice. No one came to get me as the sun showed high in the sky between the branches above my head and I didn't notice that either. I only knew that something I'd been missing before had suddenly become unavoidable, inescapable.

The new vision hurt – it strained my eyes, made me dizzy and nauseated – but even so I wanted more. Paul had shown me fragments of a different world, and now I couldn't let it go.

 

******

 

When the sun settled back down, behind the ocean that I knew lay on the other side of the thicket even if I couldn't see it, I still I hadn't moved. Shadows had merged into a blanket of dusk when I heard footsteps on the path leading into the clearing. Again.

I turned my head toward the sound. This time the steps were heavy, slow and reluctant. When Paul stepped into the open space neither of us looked surprised.

"What are you doing here," he said, his voice harsh and cold but also something else – resigned, maybe. From the hoarseness I guessed he hadn't spoken much that day. Even that didn't give me hope, but seeing him brought a strange thrill of excitement.

"Waiting," I said.

He gestured sharply. "Get up. Go on home."

I thought about it, and leaned my head back against the tree trunk. "Not yet."

For a moment neither of us spoke. I watched him covertly from under lowered eyelids, wondering how to prolong the moment, keep him here with me.

"Stand up," he said finally. "Can you stand?"

He didn't come forward to help me, but after a pause while I considered the option of defying him, I put my hands against the tree trunk behind me and pushed slowly till I stood, wobbling slightly. "Yes."

His feet moved, making a small indecisive circle near the entrance to his path. "Go home, Tom. I haven't told anyone ... "

"What?" I had to reach back and catch the tree to stop myself from falling. "Why not?"

"There's no point." He stopped pacing and took a few steps forward to stand in front of me, the familiar look of fierce, frustrated hostility knotting my stomach. "She's dead. What could I prove? She's not here to say it was rape. You'd never be convicted. You'd just get away with it. Again."

I heard his words, but his tone transfixed me. There it was again – the bitter, disdainful sound of a man who holds onto some basic expectation of behaviour and knows it won't be met. He had a way of looking at me head-on, like he took my measure and condemned me, found me beneath contempt. His judgement drew me to him; it glowed for me like a guidepost, giving me entrance to that other world. I wanted to let myself sink down into it.

Then the tone changed, shifting to resignation. "There's no point," he repeated more quietly, and started to turn away, as though he didn't want to care anymore.

I made an impetuous, last-ditch gambit. "That's not – the only thing I've done."

He made a sudden movement, like he couldn't help himself, then stopped. "I know," he said after a moment. "Like … those kids who got mugged."

I nodded. "For one."

"What did they even do to you?"

Talking took an effort. I leaned forward slightly, hand on my side. "Gave me a hard time at school."

"They were just kids!" He shook his head in disbelief and outrage. "Their faces sliced open like grapefruit. You did that?"

"Paid for it. With my allowance." I watched the nauseated look cross Paul's face again, and for another fleeting moment the new lens clicked into place: the memory of coaching Dodge made me a little sick.

"Who did it?"

I swayed, and leaned back against the tree to stay up. "Doesn't matter. I killed him last month."

Air burst from my lungs and my chest seemed to collapse as Paul's fist landed in my stomach. I lurched forward, vomited once, and wrapped my arms around myself as I fought for breath. Forcing myself back up, I saw Paul had turned away again. He hadn't wanted to do that; didn't want to repeat the previous night. But I needed more.

I pulled in enough air to speak. "Do it again," I said.

He wouldn't look at me. "Go home. _Now_."

"There's more. Lots. Jeannie wasn't the first. I – "

He lunged at me, unrestrained. At first I tried to keep myself propped against the tree to give him a target, but when I fell he just used his feet. He must have slept even less than me the night before; I recognized the irrational, uncontrolled fury of exhaustion.

It didn't last long this time. When he stopped I wanted to provoke him again but found I couldn't speak. Or maybe I just couldn't force myself to say words that would bring on more pain; not just yet.

After a while I realized he was still there, leaning against a tree trunk across the clearing from me. When I looked at him he spoke.

"Tom. Get up. You need to go home."

I hauled myself up slightly, propping my back against the tree, and ran a hand across my face. No new blood; he'd kept to my lower body this time. "What will you do?" I whispered finally. "Who will you tell?"

He shook his head slowly. "It's going to kill Patty. And it won't help Jeannie, or her dad, or any of them."

"Then don't. Please – "

"I have to. I'm not living with this."

"Uncle Paul, please – "

" _Don't call me that_. Don't _ever_ call me that! I am not your uncle, or your friend."

I swallowed, trying to find other words. "Mr. Armstrong. You don't need to. You can punish me – I'll take anything. I _want_ to – "

"I don't care what you want!" He pushed himself away from the trunk he'd been leaning against, staring down at me in disbelief. "Why would I care what _you_ want?"

"For Pat … please, please – you don't have to –"

"Do you think _I'm_ going to be responsible for you?"

"I'm not asking – "

"If you think some beating will _absolve_ you – "

"I know it won't. Nothing will. Only … when I'm with you I see what I really am."

"How did you even get in here?" he asked suddenly. "The program – the screening is supposed to check for this. No outstanding crimes. Or was it all since you got here?"

I didn't tell him how I got through the screening. "No. Lots before, plenty since."

"Your parents are fucking naïve," he said after a moment. "This should never have happened."

"It's not their fault." I took a long breath, forcing down the pain. "You're right – it'll kill my father. Won't help anyone. Please let it just … stay. You can do anything to me. I'll do anything you want."

"I told you, I don't care. Get _up_."

I thought about trying to get on my knees to him, but feared it would only make him angrier. When I pulled myself to my feet, he looked me over critically. "Can you walk?"

I took a step. "Yes."

"Then go home."

His face showed no signs of relenting; he wanted only to be rid of me. I desperately wanted to beg, not so much for his mercy but for his intervention, his censure. For him to keep caring. "Mr. Armstrong – I know I don't deserve it. But I need – "

"You need to do what I say. Go home."

His tone was hard and final, but my heart surged with sudden hope. He'd given me an order. "Yes, sir," I said.

If he understood what I meant he didn't show it. He said nothing else, just turned abruptly and walked away, back along the path he'd come from.

I watched him leave, then leaned over to clutch a tree branch and take stock of my condition. Aside from the fractured rib nothing else seemed broken, and I could probably walk without throwing up, if not quickly. Of course I was covered in mud and leaves, my shirt was torn, the blood on my face itched a little, and while clothing hid some of my bruises the ones on my face and arms had to show clearly. I couldn't breathe without wincing visibly and I couldn't walk without limping.

Well. I wouldn't be the first sixteen year old boy to come home looking like he'd lost a fight. The chance might be tiny, maybe I was a fool even to hope, but if Paul did choose to keep quiet, I could manage my end.

I made my way home slowly and stumbled down the side stairs without being seen. In my room, I took off my clothes, pulled out my comm – still functional, amazingly – and checked the time. A little after midnight on Friday night; I hadn't been home since some time Thursday afternoon. Listening, I could hear the sounds of people walking around upstairs; no doubt my parents had sounded the alarm by now. I sent a few words of vague lies to Pat and Dell, told them I was home and going to sleep. Then I rolled into bed and passed out.


	21. Chapter 21

With their usual kindness, my parents let me sleep a few hours before they confronted me. But I'd been gone more than a day and they couldn't ignore the shape I came home in.

As soon as they spoke to me, I knew Paul hadn't told them anything. At least not yet.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it home," I repeated doggedly, as Pat and Adele sat in chairs across from my bed, looking at me sorrowfully. "I should have called. I'm fine. I don't need a doctor. No, I can't tell you what happened. I'm sorry. It's nothing. Just the usual schoolyard bullshit. Ask Phillip," I suggested finally, in a stroke of brilliance.

They brought him in. When he looked at me I saw his clear, grey-green eyes widen just barely as they took in the sight, but he didn't show anything else. I didn't know what he'd say but I knew he wouldn't let me down, and he didn't. He told Pat and Dell calmly that he didn't know exactly what had happened to me but he thought I was doing fine at school; I usually got along well with everyone, and this must be some odd isolated event because there were no big issues that he knew of.

It worked; I could see them look less worried as they listened. Phillip made the whole thing seem interesting but not alarming – unusual but nothing to write home about – and they seemed to absorb his mood unconsciously.

For my part, I tried to keep the focus on my failures in not calling or coming home, as though I expected them to be most upset about that. I apologized repeatedly, knowing they'd to find ways to excuse my negligence, and figured that would distract them from worrying about how the damage was caused.

Sure enough, they gradually relaxed, assuring me they weren't angry. I didn't need to fake my exhaustion and eventually they promised to continue later so I could go back to sleep now. As they left, Phillip shut the door behind them and then crossed slowly over to my bed.

"What the fuck, Tommy," he said, looking at me more closely.

I lowered myself slowly to lie down on the bed, putting a hand over my eyes. "Thanks, man."

"But who – how – did you get jumped? Must've been a whole bunch of them, it – "

"Please, Pip. It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

He sat down on the mattress beside me and touched my arm. "I need to know what you're gonna do about it, though. Is this war? I can't – "

"Nothing," I told him. "I'm going to do nothing."

"Are you carrying? Are you going to bring anything to school that – "

"No. I have no plans for revenge or – or even to defend myself. I promise. Okay?"

For a moment he sat silently and even with my eyes shut I could feel his cool, thoughtful gaze on my face. "Will you be safe?"

_Safe_? I wondered what that even meant. But I opened my eyes and looked straight at him. "Yes."

"Okay," he said finally. "If you promise."

"Thanks. Seriously, Phillip, thank you." I shut my eyes again. "Now could you please make sure no one comes in here?"

He paused. "I'll need to know what to tell people at school on Monday. A plan."

"Okay. We can talk tomorrow. Can you just leave me now?"

"Yeah," he said. The weight on my bed lifted as he stood up, and then I felt the blankets being drawn up over my shoulders. "Okay."

The light on the other side of my eyelids dulled to grey as he turned off the switch. I heard the door open and shut, and I lay on my bed, under the covers, too sore to move.

I didn't go back to sleep. Instead I thought about my past, calling up moments I'd all but forgotten and turning them over and over in the imperfect light of my new fragmented vision. Occasionally an image lit up clearly, and each time I felt a yawning sense of dread. As if I knew that once all the pictures came into focus I'd never be able to escape them again. I went into the bathroom and threw up one more time.

My world had shifted irrevocably. I still couldn't make sense of it and maybe I never would, but I'd seen enough to know that Paul had something to do with it. If another world was out there, I couldn't reach it on my own. I needed him to bring it into focus.

 

******

 

Dawn broke, and the room brightened slowly around me. Eventually I must have dozed a bit, maybe for a few hours in the middle of the day. Pat came in at one point and insisted on cleaning my open cuts, applying disinfectant and washing off the blood where it was obvious.

As the sunlight drained from my room that evening, Dell brought me a tray. That's when I realized I hadn't eaten for two days. I thanked her and eventually she left me alone again. When I finished eating most of my strength seemed to return and my thoughts grew clearer.

Paul had chosen not to tell my parents anything, at least so far. He was still the only person here who knew the truth about me, my true nature. If he hadn't passed his knowledge on – hadn't shared his burden, as he'd so obviously wanted to – then surely he couldn't be finished with me. Gradually I realized what I had to do next.

I stood under the hot shower for a long time, soothing my aching muscles. Finally I dried myself off, pulled on fresh clothes, and slipped a small knife into my pocket. The house was quiet as I went through the gym to the side door that led outside, near a footpath along the shore.

Moonlight guided my steps as I followed the trail, back to the wooded area. In the clearing, I checked a few trees until I found a long, narrow, flexible branch. I used my knife to cut it down, scrape off the twigs and leaves, and shape one end to a narrow point. Then I settled down on the edge of the clearing to wait.

Paul arrived an hour later, and I met him as he stepped off the path. If I surprised him, he didn't show it. Neither of us spoke. I handed him the switch, pulled off my shirt, and turned around to lean my forearms against the rough bark of a wide, bare tree trunk.

For a moment Paul didn't move. Then I heard his footsteps, heavy on the ground behind me, and he kicked once at my heels; I moved my feet further apart obediently.

Another pause, and then he said quietly, "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, sir." I spoke without raising my head, firmly as I could. A moment later I heard the swish of the switch cutting through the air, and braced myself for the first lash.

 

******

 

The next night we did it all again; and the next. On the fourth night he didn't show up, and I fell asleep on the rough, gritty floor of the clearing, waiting. On the fifth night he appeared and my hopes revived. After that, I waited in vain for three nights, despairing.

Meanwhile, I wore long-sleeved shirts and didn't go to the beach. I told Phillip I didn't care what people at school thought and didn't want a cover story. He finally shrugged and agreed to tell the truth, that he didn't know anything.

I went back to school on Monday with a swollen eye, bruised cheekbone, split lip, and lingering limp. The Hawkins kids reacted to my appearance first, when we met for the bus – amazed, sympathetic or gloating; Lance crowed a little at the idea that I'd lost a fight, while Barry looked quietly concerned. They poured out questions, demanding to know what happened, and I told them it was none of their business.

The scene replayed itself at school, and I repeated " _nothing_ " over and over again, till I felt like a battered wind-up toy. Then the news about Jeannie came out and while no one directly connected her suicide to me – the way Paul had – I still got a fresh wave of questions about what had happened and why. All I could do was refuse to comment. When the direct questions died away, the whispers began. I ignored the surreptitious glances and increasingly bizarre rumours.

Barry got me alone after school, assuming I'd tell him everything. I made my refusal as polite as I knew how, but I couldn't stop him from feeling hurt and betrayed by my silence. It created the first really serious rift between us, which I regretted but couldn't find a way to avoid.

The police wanted to interview me about Jeannie's death; I guess her father knew we'd been friends, or maybe someone at school mentioned it. I told them a bit of the truth – that we'd been friends but hadn't dated. When they asked if we'd had sex I said no. In a small way, I thought that was true to Jeannie.

The investigation was short and routine, and soon concluded that she'd killed herself for reasons unknown. I never met her parents. Paul told me not to go to the funeral.

Pat and Dell knew Jeannie had been my friend, and I told them about her suicide since I figured they'd hear about it eventually. They did make the connection between Jeannie's death and my disappearance for two days, but they couldn't figure out the detail.

I let them discuss it for as long as they wanted without telling them anything. Eventually they agreed to let it pass. But when I did my next shift with Tiran, he told me they'd asked him to find out what happened.

"So here I am," he said, smiling a little, while we were alone in the great room. "Asking. Whatever you told them, is it true?"

I knelt on the rug in the corner of the room, where the sub on duty traditionally waited between orders. "I didn't really tell them anything."

"Then you'll have to tell me. What happened to you?"

For probably the first time I felt anger at my parents. I moved restlessly on the rug. "I'm sorry," I told Tiran. "But I'm afraid I can't answer that."

His eyebrows lifted. "I'm giving you an order, Van Mertz."

"I'm very sorry," I said, with as much respect as I could muster.

Tiran paused. "Are you disobeying a direct order?"

"With regret, sir, yes." That was the truth; I still didn't want Pat to have to pay for my sins. "I'll willingly accept any punishment for it. And … and if you decline my service because of this, I understand, of course."

He mulled that over for a moment. "Is that what you want, Mertz? A way out? You want to stop working for me?"

"No, sir, not at all. But I can't answer that question, no matter the cost. I hope you'll forgive me. For my father's sake, if not mine."

"It's Pat who wanted me to ask. I guess he loses either way."

I stayed quiet for a minute. Finally I couldn't help saying, "For what it's worth, I believe Pat's better off not knowing, and letting me serve you. But he's your sub, and you know best how to treat him."

That worked. Tiran looked a bit amused, and agreed to tell Pat and Dell I had declined to answer his questions. He did assign me to work in the gardens for a few nights, by way of punishment, and I thanked him sincerely.

"You know," Tiran said, looking at me intently. "You've changed a lot, haven't you? From the kid I met in that office two years ago."

He didn't know the half of it, I thought to myself.


	22. Chapter 22

And meanwhile. Meanwhile, there was Paul. When he met me at the clearing for an hour or two in the middle of the night, everything appeared possible to me; at home afterwards I would fall into a heavy sleep, my hopes providing comfort even if I couldn't move my body for the pain.

When he didn't, I thought all was lost. Without him, how could I ever reach that other world? Would I be frozen here forever, repulsed by everything I knew about myself, my old vision destroyed and nothing to put in its place? Every goal and plan I had for myself seemed empty, meaningless, useless. It was like I stood on the edge of a stagnant river, my old life crumbled into ruins behind me, the glitter of lights far ahead on the other side, and no way to get from one to the other.

I didn't dare approach Paul when he didn't show up, but I wrestled helplessly with what I would do if he refused to give me more of what I most needed.

Finally, after I'd missed him for several nights, Paul sent me a message with instructions to meet him at his house the next afternoon, when I got back from school. I barely made it through that day, on tenterhooks with uncertainty – excited at the prospect of seeing him, but fearing what he might say.

Through my distracted anxiety I could see that Barry's hurt had progressed to irritation and anger. I wanted to regain our comfortable intimacy but didn't have resources then for the work I knew it would take. I had to put it off and hope later wouldn't be too late.

When the school-bus dropped us at the estate gates, I headed off at a run – partly to avoid the others, partly to get to Paul as soon as possible. But I stopped in the little grove to cut a new switch, and carried that with me as I approached his house.

I'd never been to Paul's house before – never had reason to. As I got close to it I slowed down, trying to calm myself, order my thoughts and settle on a strategy.

I studied the front of the building as I walked up – the main door didn't look well used. From passing by many times on my way to the rec centre, I knew there was an enclosed yard at the back with a wooden privacy fence. I made my way over to it, and tentatively swung open the gate.

Inside, the yard was simple and uncluttered, with grass, a few trees, and a couple of small nearly neglected flower borders. Closer to the house was the usual terrace, with two or three comfortable chaises longue, a small café table and chairs, a bench, a wood-oven for cooking.

French doors framed by large picture windows led into the back of the house. Inside I could make out what looked like a small den or lounge. I approached slowly, wondering how to announce my arrival.

As I hesitated, one of the doors opened abruptly and Paul stepped outside, blocking my way.

"Don't even think you're going to pollute the inside of my house," he said. "It's bad enough to have you on my property."

That set the tone clearly enough. I stopped and dropped my gaze as he faced me.

"That's good – don't look at me. Just listen."

I hesitated, then held out the switch to him uncertainly. He took it and tossed it aside. "Not now."

With my eyes down, I could only see his feet, which paced restlessly as usual when he began to speak.

"I want to get a few things straight with you before this goes any further," he began coolly, the measured words telling me he'd prepared his speech. "First off. So far I haven't told anyone what you did or what I know about you – but I'm not making any promises. That could change any time. No matter what I do, no matter what you do, nothing is guaranteed. I'll do whatever I think is best, whenever I want, no matter what. Is that understood?"

He paused and waited, so I nodded without looking up. "Yes, sir."

"We have not _made a deal_." He said it as though he loathed the idea of negotiating with me. "I want to be completely clear about that." His feet moved over to the wood oven, and he leaned against it. I pictured him looking down at me with folded arms.

"I understand, sir." I debated for a second, and then lowered myself to my knees in front of him. He didn't seem to notice.

"I owe you nothing. To me, you're just a mistake my brother made, a disaster we're all saddled with. My only interest is to-to limit your … toxic impact. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes, sir," I said. In truth I hardly processed his words at the time; all my focus was on responding appropriately, not angering him further, making sure I heard out all he had to tell me. But I registered every syllable, and when I left him that night I went over and over it all in my head, reviewing everything he said – looking up words when I had to – analyzing and internalizing it, until I was sure I fully grasped what he meant.

I saw him move over to the bench, hoisting himself up to sit on the back of it with his feet on the flat seat, so that now he loomed well above me. Maybe from this new vantage he noticed my position, because he seemed to veer away from his prepared speech.

"This is not some … Dom/sub game," he said irritably. "Like Tiran plays. I know you have an arrangement with him. If you think you can humour me with some meaningless rituals, play the good sub … you're mistaken."

I felt my face grow warm, and couldn't stop myself from responding. "I don't think that, sir."

He made a disgusted noise. "You think you have it all figured out. You've done exactly what you wanted all this time. Got everyone wrapped around your little finger, don't you?"

Swallowing, I choked back another defensive response. He didn't want an answer. I forced myself to keep quiet.

"Except me. So now I'm stuck with you. However much I hate it." Resentment and frustration coloured his voice again. "Why should I be responsible for you? Just because I know what you really are. No else will stop you. I don't know how to get myself out of this situation without telling your parents, and – I don't even trust them to handle it. If they survived the shock." He stopped. "I want to kick your ass just for putting me in this position."

I wanted to say I was sorry, but that seemed ludicrous so I kept my mouth shut.

"Don't ever think I like it."

When I turned his words over in my mind later, I kept thinking about that resentful reluctance. Did he have to hate it all so much? Could I do anything to make it more tolerable for him?

"But as long as I'm stuck with you, here's how it works." Paul paused, as though to organize his thoughts again, and I waited silently, telling myself that from now on I'd only respond to direct questions.

"You don't hurt anyone," he said flatly. "Directly or through anyone else. That's an order, and the day you break it is the day I wash my hands of you. If not before."

I grasped at the clear direction with relief. "Yes, sir."

"I'm not going to chase around after you. I hear things. I know what goes on. And I'm not going to negotiate with you. Anything you do now, it's on me … So the next thing I hear, however small, I go straight to your parents, the police, whatever."

"Yes, sir."

For a moment he didn't speak; then, abruptly, he asked, "Do you even understand what I'm talking about? Did anyone ever teach you … say, the Golden Rule?"

I looked at him blankly, trying to figure out what he meant.

"Do you know what it means to hurt someone? You were underage till recently. Some say kids don't understand right and wrong."

His question kind of touched the heart of my dilemma, but surely making excuses would just anger him further. "I – I know those words. Now. I didn't before but … I mean, you don't need the words to know you're hurting someone."

"Like when you hurt Jeannie?"

I couldn't answer that right away. Had I known how much I was hurting her then? If anything, I hadn't thought about it; hadn't cared. If I had, would I have realized? Would I now? And if I'd missed it that time, what else had I missed? Would I continue to miss?

He waited a moment, watching me with sharp eyes. Then he said impatiently, "Well, I'm not your teacher. It's bad enough I'm stuck with you. But I suggest you figure it out, because you're not getting any more chances."

"When I'm with you," I said, the words coming out before I knew they were there. "I know. Then I can see."

He growled impatiently. "How touching." He jumped down from the bench to land in front of me and I braced myself, expecting him to hit me again. But he just took a handful of hair and pulled my head up to look me in the face. "I'm not following you around like Jiminy Cricket. I'm just telling you what happens the next time you fuck up."

We stared at each other for a moment, and then I lowered my eyes and nodded, as best I could. "I understand, sir."

He let go, and took a few steps away, to the edge of the terrace. "So that's the first rule," he said, looking out over the yard. "For the future. Now – the past." He turned toward me, and I allowed myself to meet his gaze, which had grown cool and disdainful again. "This isn't some kind of – redemption story. It's not _A Christmas Carol_ , where you see the error of your ways and get to be a better man in the future. There is nothing you can do to make up for what's past."

When he stopped, I was back on autopilot. "Yes, sir."

Paul frowned a little, and paced away from me, out into the yard. I waited, watching him while his back was to me. He seemed to be thinking.

Finally he stopped and turned back; he stood behind one of the lounge chairs, drumming his fingers on it. "But," he said at last, and then paused. "At the same time," he went on again, still frowning. "You need to be accountable. You don't just get to write everything off and forget about it. So here's how it's going to work." He spoke more firmly now, his mind apparently made up. "You're going to make a list of everything you've done in the past. Every – every crime, let's say. No. I don't care about property crimes – buying, selling, stealing. And I don't really care if something was actually against the law or not. So let's say: Every time you've hurt someone."

I stared at him blankly again. "What? I mean … hurt someone – how? Since when?"

He came back to the bench and leaned against it, smiling down at me with a kind of bitter satisfaction. "You don't like that so much, do you? For as long as you can remember. And you know what I mean by hurt. We just talked about it."

I didn't know how to explain. "With respect, sir," I said, after a moment. "I couldn't possibly – I mean. It would be almost every moment of my life. Before I came here."

His face twisted angrily. "Fuck you, Van Mertz. Is that supposed to make it better? Does that mean it doesn't count?"

"But I – " I found myself casting around for anything to make his order more manageable. "Are you talking about people like me, too?"

"What?" He looked perplexed. "What do you mean, _people like you_?"

I thought about Dodge, Tyco. Kip. "You don't care if I hurt other – criminals. Right? You mean, like … innocent people."

He slapped me. A flat, open-handed slap. I fell backwards, hand to my cheek, shocked at the unexpected force, before I recovered and lowered my hands to my thighs.

"You think people don't count because they're not _innocent_?" Paul demanded.

My face throbbed. I couldn't think clearly. "No sir," I said, the easiest answer.

" _Every person_ you've harmed, in _any_ way. You don't get to judge other people. I don't care if it takes you the rest of your life. If it keeps you busy so much the better." He looked down at me from above, his hard ropy forearms crossed defiantly over his chest, daring me to argue.

The sight of him sent a sudden, almost painful, charge surging through my blood, even with my ears still ringing and my mind in despair at the impossibility of his order. Since that night in the clearing I'd always felt a kind of thrill when I saw Paul, but this time my response had nothing to do with his vision. Now his physical presence alone seemed to overwhelm me, overpower me. I'd never found anything inherently appealing about domination before, but in this moment the mixture of conviction, authority, and contempt in Paul's bearing intoxicated me. I swallowed, shook myself slightly to try and clear my head, and resigned myself to his will. "Yes, sir."

"Once we have that list, we'll see what you can do about it. Make direct amends, maybe. Reparations. I don't know." His voice drifted away and he paused in his thoughts, then spoke more directly to me. "You worry about the list. That's your job."

I still thought it was hopeless, but I parked that for mulling over later. "Yes, sir."

"Okay." He might have relaxed a fraction, but he still stood resolutely, staring down at me. "Another thing. Watch how you treat me in public. I don't want you acting like there's something between us. There isn't. You treat me like anyone else."

That also seemed impossible. "With respect, sir," I said for lack of anything better. It could have been a protest, or maybe a description. He ignored it, either way.

"But let me be clear," he went on. "I'm not asking you to keep secrets. I'm well aware I'm a thirty-five-year-old man beating up on a sixteen-year-old boy … or at least some people would call you a _boy_." He looked sceptical. "You have a problem with that, you go right ahead and report me. We don't have a deal, this is not blackmail, I'm not promising my silence for yours. You want to talk, go ahead. I'd be just as happy to be rid of you."

"I would never," I started.

He gestured over my shoulder. "And by the way. This is all on record."

I followed where he pointed. Behind me, up under the eaves of the house, a small red light flashed.

"You understand, Tom? I'm not putting myself in your power. You try blackmailing me, I'm happy for both of us to go public. I don't care who knows about what I do."

"Sir, if that's a camera, may I speak for the record?"

He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged pointedly. "Go right ahead."

I knelt up and faced the red light head on. "I just want to say to anyone watching this … Everything Mr. Armstrong has done to me has been by my direct – request. With my consent. There's been no coercion."

He gave a derisive snort. "Oh, thank you, Tom. I'm sure that'll hold up in court."

"Maybe not, but it's a start." I sat back on my haunches. "It's no use for me to say, but I would never try to use anything against you, sir. I – I need this. I don't want it to stop."

"You're right, it's no use for you to say."

I opened my mouth, then shut it again and looked down.

Paul pushed himself away from the bench. "That's all for now. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir." I seized the opportunity, shooting him a tentative glance. "The, um … the clearing, sir." I gestured faintly at the long, narrow switch he'd left on the café table. "Will you … still meet me there?"

"Oh." He turned away slightly, looking out over the wooden fence around his yard, toward the little grove of trees visible on the other side. For a moment he didn't answer. "We can't," he said finally. "You have school, I have work. And … and people will notice. Not that I care," he added fiercely. "But they'll stop us."

My heart sank a little. "Please. What about – maybe on weekends?"

He half shrugged. "Maybe."

"Or – here, sir. It doesn't have to be at night … "

"Oh, don't worry, Van. I'm using that thing on you before you leave here today."

I stared up at him. "Really, sir?"

He moved toward the table and picked up the switch, flexing it with his other hand. "Should still work."

"I'll buy a proper whip, sir."

He grunted. "Seems like a better use of your allowance than hiring hitmen."

I reached for the hem of my shirt. "Now, sir?"

"Any other questions?"

"No, sir." Of course I had more, or I should have – would have, when I thought about it. But the prospect of the switch obliterated everything else; the flesh of my back crawled in anticipation. "Please."

"Take off all your clothes."

Usually I just bared my back. My fingers shook, almost too unsteady to obey, as I pulled off my shirt and reached for the button at my waist. I kicked off my shoes and dropped my pants. He waited while I laid everything carefully in a pile near the gate, then used the switch to point to a tree in the middle of the yard. I felt his gaze on me as I walked over to it. Could he really be impervious to this? Did he take no pleasure in it?

I reached up, twining my arms around the tree trunk and grasping a branch on the other side to keep myself in position. The rough bark against my skin, as I laid my cheek against the trunk, felt familiar and soothing to me now.

When he moved up behind me, I kept my eyes open to show him my conscious assent. Once I lost sight of him I gripped the branch tighter and forced myself not to move. However much I wanted it, however much I'd taken in the past, waiting for the first lash always took an effort.

I heard the switch slice through the air and a split second later felt a searing line of fire across the top of my shoulders. I pressed my forehead against the tree and braced for the next cut. It landed just below the first, with less shock but a more focused, familiar burn. For a while I concentrated on each separate, defined jolt of pain, my body arching and flexing away from the lash as it landed. By the time Paul finished covering my back and moved lower, to my ass, the strokes had merged together into a single expanding blaze of fire. I shut my eyes and forced myself to sink into it.

I wouldn't say I enjoyed the pain; I didn't get off on it. The pleasure for me came from the hurting; the visceral sense of suffering that on some level might approximate the suffering I'd caused. I understood Paul when he said this wasn't about redemption, that nothing I did helped anyone else. It was a purely selfish form of relief for me.

The measured, methodical swing of the switch and enveloping flames eventually lulled me into a kind of trance. Paul didn't speak but even in my haze I noted his composure – he had an implacable rhythm today, entirely unlike his furious attack that first night in the clearing.

Much later that night – after I'd spent hours reviewing everything Paul had said, making sure I understood and internalized his every direction; after I'd showered and rubbed lotion into the welts I could reach, so that my skin would heal and be ready for the next time; while I lay on my stomach in bed – I wondered again if Paul took pleasure from my punishment.

I couldn't be sure he had sadistic tastes, though I didn't doubt his dominance. The way he'd taken charge of me – assuming his authority and his right to make decisions, delivering commands with no question they would be obeyed – those were the marks of an innately dominant personality.

I believed him when he said he didn't like his situation. It had been forced on him, and he seemed to have no personal interest in me. Still, on some level, it came naturally to him. He might hate the lack of choice, but did he have to hate the consequences? Wasn't it possible for him to enjoy parts of it? Or for me to somehow make it more palatable for him?

Paul had what I needed. His perspective, his instinctive responses to me and my actions … they brought me closer to another world. No one else could give me that. My parents and the other adults here meant well, but they'd forged a kind of complicity with me. They'd taken me inside their tribal bond and now they had to keep me there. Yes – if conscience or practical reality dictated, they might turn me over to police or social workers. But no matter what they found out, they'd offer me compassion, sympathy, loyalty, understanding. What they couldn't accept they'd shut their eyes to, or make excuses for. Paul did what the other adults never would: he judged me.

But as long as he felt so trapped, I risked losing him – he could walk away, turn me over to the others. There had to be something I could offer him – a trade, an exchange – that would palliate his frustration.

I tossed from side to side in the bed, and eventually slid onto my back. No point trying to avoid the pain forever. I came back to it again: could Paul take pleasure from another person's suffering? Even if it didn't come naturally to him – could he, would he, enjoy mine?

Or if my suffering didn't please him, surely he'd respond to submission – real submission; not the ritualized motions I'd learned with Tiran but the genuine surrender of mind and body to his wishes and desires. Could I do that? Was I capable of total subservience?

Or did I aim too high? Maybe all I could offer him was obedience, maybe all I could hope for was tolerance.

We had no formal agreement; he'd made that clear. I didn't know how much room I had to influence the terms of our tentative, precarious arrangement. But it was in my nature to try.


	23. Chapter 23

The next day I faced up to the assignment Paul had left me with.

I spent some time wondering how I was supposed to go about it, and what the actual list should look like. Was I supposed to produce some kind of document? With short points, like an inventory, or in detail, like a confession? And what was I supposed to do with it? Show it to Paul? Save it somewhere?

One thing I knew for sure: At some point he'd be asking me about it. And I'd better have something ready.

So I forced myself to stop worrying about the detail and started turning my mind to what I might need to include. I thought I'd be able to do it on some kind of intellectual level – go through events and incidents from my past and apply Paul's criteria about hurting people to decide whether they needed to be on my list. But the shock of my new vision hit again as soon as I started thinking back on things I'd done. What I'd considered normal, mechanical, simple requirements of business now seemed incomprehensible, impossible to explain. Sickening.

The process turned out to be so difficult – painful, wrenching – that I ended up limiting myself to half an hour of concentration a night, and even for that I needed all my self-discipline to force myself into it.

When Paul asked me about it the next time I met him, I confessed to my limitations, expecting him to be angry and order me to work harder. Instead he seemed unsurprised, and simply told me to double the time I spent on it, to an hour a night.

"Yes, sir," I said, more relieved at his calm response than worried about the increase.

He handed me back the list I'd given him. In the end I'd dictated a few incidents, bullet point style, and produced a hard copy out of fear of showing up empty-handed.

"I want more detail. Dates, locations, people involved, full description. Exactly what you did. I want a signed confession at the end of this."

"Yes, sir," I said, taking back the paper.

He saw my unhappiness at the command. We were in the clearing inside the little woods again; he'd ordered me to meet him there one afternoon. I had cut a switch and given it to him as usual but it looked like he didn't plan to use that today.

"You don't like the idea of giving me a full confession I can use against you any time?" he asked, almost taunting.

"No, sir," I said truthfully. "I don't mind that."

He looked at me more closely as I knelt in front of him. "It's the detail? You don't like thinking about this stuff so much now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. That's what I want. You think it's painful just thinking about these things? How do you think it felt for the other guys?"

"Of course it was worse for them. I understand, sir." He usually reminded me of this at least once every time I saw him so I knew the appropriate response by now.

"Send me an update a week from today. I expect full details for at least seven items."

"Yes, sir." My heart sank a little at the idea that we might not meet in person next time, but I didn't dare ask about that.

He seemed about to leave. By this time I'd thought of a bunch of other questions – the ones I'd been too distracted to raise at our last meeting, when he'd invited them. "Sir … ?" I began tentatively.

He paused and glanced at me, unfriendly as always. "What?"

I had to swallow a little before speaking again. His indifference unnerved me, but not as much as the idea of inadvertently screwing up if I didn't get my questions answered. "May I clarify something? I … I just wondered about – Tiran. And Barry and Randall."

"What about them?"

"I, uh – as you know. I have an arrangement with Tiran. I mean I take my father's place some days. And Barry's my major, Randall's my batman. Do you – should I stop doing these things?"

His distant, uninterested look disappeared in an instant. I saw the explosion just before it came, and wanted to duck instinctively, but forced myself not to move.

"What the hell do I care?" Paul demanded. "What did I tell you, Van Mertz? I'm not responsible for you! You make your own decisions and leave me out of it. I told you, I'm not your – your Dom. _You_ are responsible for your life. Not me. Do you get that or not?"

I did get that, though I wasn't sure I liked it. "Yes, sir. I do. I'm sorry for the question. But … but, sir," I couldn't help adding.

" _What_?" he said, the thinnest of veneers covering his rage.

I knew I shouldn't be pursuing this, but I'd done a lot of thinking and there were some areas where I really wanted his input. "If I'm going to keep acting as Barry's batman I need to tell him something about what happened. I – I don't know what I should say. Please. What should I tell him?"

For a second he stared at me almost blankly, and then he lashed out, swinging at me with the hand that still held the switch. I shut my eyes, expecting a bloody slash across my face, but only his closed fist slammed against the side of my jaw. My teeth snapped shut and my head fell backwards, but the damage could have been worse.

"Are you _threatening_ me, Van Mertz?" Paul said, his voice thick with tightly controlled fury.

I shook my head dizzily, trying to follow him through my confusion. "Threatening? No ... how could I be threatening you?"

"You just asked if you should tell Barry what I did. I told you before, I'm not afraid of – "

"Oh – no," I said, getting it now. I moved my jaw experimentally; it seemed to work, still. "Not what _you_ did. I'm sorry – I didn't mean that at all."

"I bet you didn't," he scoffed, pacing away from me.

I recognized this; the pointed disdain was his form of defiance. "I'd never mention your name," I said, as bluntly as I could, hoping to reassure him. "There's no reason to. I wasn't asking about – "

"I don't care what you – "

"I meant – I meant about Jeannie." I hated talking about it but I couldn't afford to be misunderstood. "I don't know if I, if I have any right to say what happened – what I did to her."

He whirled back and stopped in front of me. "Are you asking _me_ what you should do – _again_? What did I just tell you?"

"But I – "

"I _will_ _not_ – Fuck that! I never wanted – It's bad enough I'm stuck with you, but don't _ever_ expect me to be responsible for you. I am _not_ your conscience. I'm not going to tell you what to do. You need to figure those things out for yourself."

"Okay." I sank back, holding up my hands helplessly. "Okay. I'm sorry, sir. I don't mean to – I do want to take responsibility for myself. But I'm – it's new to me. I just … hoped you might give me a bit of guidance."

"I won't be your moral beacon, Tom. Don't try to put me in that position. It's bad enough that – "

"I know." I tried to stop him before he repeated himself; I didn't want to remind him again of how much he hated his situation. Partly to change the subject, I said without thinking, "But you told me not to go to the funeral."

I didn't mean to argue with him; I didn't want to provoke him. I just wanted to be sure I understood, and his order about the funeral seemed hard to reconcile with his refusal to weigh in on anything else.

Paul made a quick movement, like he would have hit me again if he hadn't circled away from me earlier. I saw him restrain himself, and then he took a couple of large steps forward so he stood directly in front of me. "Watch your mouth, boy," he growled. "I'm not going to take any attitude from you."

He sounded like Tiran in one of his more imperious moods. "I'm sorry, sir," I said hastily, lowering my eyes to try and show my submission. Apparently Paul had had plenty of practice being a Dom himself. "I didn't mean – "

"And for the record. That order was for _my_ benefit, not yours. I didn't think I could stand the sight of you there."

"Yes, sir." With my eyes still lowered I saw his feet turn in front of me, and realized he was about to stalk away. "Wait, sir – please!" I implored without thinking. "I didn't mean to be smart, honestly. I'm sorry if it sounded like it. I really wanted to understand." He paused without turning, and I rushed on. "The thing is, I want to obey you. I'm still trying to figure out what that means. I promise I'll do anything, but – "

For a moment Paul seemed to be listening; then he glanced back at me, contemptuous as always. "I don't need you trying to figure anything. I'll _tell_ you when I want you to do something. Otherwise I don't care what you do. You're nothing to me."

Strange how hard it hit me, hearing this man call me _nothing_ to him. A week or two ago he was nothing to me either. Now my world seemed to revolve around him.

I gave up trying to find out anything more that day. By now I recognized the futility of talking to Paul while he was in one of his rages; he was like a trapped animal, frustrated, blind, uncaring. There had to be another way to approach him.

But it looked like I could rule out pure submission as the way to his heart, or at least to his centre of pleasure.

 

******

 

I figured I couldn't initiate contact with Paul; I had to wait for him to make the next move. Passive acceptance isn't my usual style, so already this was new to me. My preferred approach has always been to analyze a situation and make a strategic, proactive response. I couldn't seem to do that with Paul, but I could with Barry.

Once I knew Paul wouldn't help me, I thought for a long time about how to deal with Barry. I realized I did want to keep being his batman, if I could; wouldn't it be a cop-out to quit now? If anything, I might have more to learn from him now than I ever had before. Maybe a mentor was just what I needed.

Aside from that, I missed Barry. I missed our old easy intimacy, and the odd quiet thrill I used to get when he took me into his confidence. I didn't blame him for being offended at how I'd treated him.

_Hurt_. He'd been hurt. I remembered Paul's order to me; he hadn't made a distinction between physical and emotional hurt. What I could say that would reduce the pain I'd caused Barry? What could I offer him without betraying Paul or disrespecting Jeannie or potentially hurting someone else – like Jeannie's parents, if they ever heard what I said.

Besides, if I told Barry the whole truth wouldn't he react like Paul did? Wouldn't he want to tell some other adults what I'd done? The thought of telling Barry about Jeannie sent a cold shudder of despair through my blood. He would never look at me the same way if he knew what I did that night. I'd always figured he had some idea – maybe more than most – of what I was capable of. No doubt he made allowances for some of it. But I couldn't imagine him excusing this away.

I put my head in my hands, still trying to figure it out. Didn't I owe Barry the truth? Even if it meant losing him, losing his friendship and confidence? Maybe I deserved that. Maybe I'd never deserved those things in the first place. But when I tried to picture life on the estate without Barry's friendship, I couldn't face it. There had to be another way.

I thought about it for a long time, planning my words and considering their impact from multiple angles before I approached Barry. Of course advance planning wasn't new to me; I almost always thought things out in detail ahead of time. But in the past I'd only been trying to generate the best outcome for myself. This time, I needed to figure out how my words and actions would affect other people as well, which turned out to be surprisingly tricky.

The next afternoon, as we got off the bus coming back from school, I slipped over to Barry and matched my steps to his. He'd been cold again on the ride home, and continued to ignore me as the group of us walked along the drive.

When we reached the garage, my brothers headed off with Pasha toward our group of houses, but I kept pace with Barry. We walked across the big lawn to the Hawkins' place, while Barry chatted pointedly with the younger kids, giving me no opportunity to engage him in anything.

I waited patiently till we reached his house. As the others went inside or on to the rec centre, Barry stopped and let them pass him. Finally, when we were alone on the front porch, he turned to me. "So? What is it, Van Mertz? You're hovering around me like a mosquito or something. Finally decided you want to talk to me?"

As I'd expected, it took a lot of work to soothe him. Apologies weren't enough, but telling him the full story would have had consequences for too many people. So I told Barry one small part of the truth: that I couldn't be candid with him because of how other people would be affected. I'd seen his sensitivity, his delicacy in avoiding touchy subjects, on many occasions. I knew he'd take my point, and he did.

After that I could only tell him that my beating had been well-deserved and I harboured no ill-will toward the person who did it, not naming anyone. Barry asked if it had anything to do with Jeannie and I let my silence answer him, but I don't think he ever made the full connection. He wouldn't have been able to hide it from me if he had.

Even so, I still remember the flickering misgivings in his face as he listened to me. Afterwards, while he still looked disturbed, I apologized again for cutting him out. I told him truthfully that this had been an awakening for me and that I'd needed time to work through it. He nodded seriously at that, and said he understood.

"I hope you'll forgive me," I said finally. "I miss you."

He half turned away from me, so I couldn't see his face. "I'm just wondering," he said, after a moment. "If you still want to be my batman."

"I do," I said quickly. "I'm – committed."

"Maybe the system isn't working for you."

"It is."

For an instant I thought he was going to throw me out anyway; then he shrugged and let it go. I won't say the conversation was fun or cathartic, but we shook hands at the end of it, and Barry stood on the porch to watch me leave with a sombre look. It only occurred to me after I got home that he'd shaken hands to avoid hugging me.

Over time, I guess things improved between us. Barry got over his initial sense of betrayal, but some things have a permanent impact. Maybe just because they happen, when you might have thought they never would. I'm not sure Barry's feelings for me ever fully recovered from this experience.

 

******

 

As for Paul and me: people knew. Not all of it – I don't think anyone guessed the real nature of our bond; by this time Paul had learned to contain his impact, and I had stopped wearing anything that bared my back. And not right away – I did my best to follow Paul's order. But no matter how carefully, meticulously even, I tried to treat Paul the same as I always had, I know I gave myself away. Probably in tiny unconscious ways: growing more alert, more serious, more anxious when he came into a room, say. Or maybe people heard me call him Mr. Armstrong instead of Uncle Paul. And while Paul steadfastly ignored me except when he couldn't avoid it, I think people noticed even that. I saw the small curious looks, the speculation, the little checks and tests whenever we were in the same environment.

Barry, for one, put things together pretty early. Maybe he still smarted a little from our rift, or maybe it was just good-natured interest, but once he'd made his guess, he seemed to take contrary pleasure in finding ways to throw us together. I remember a group football game where he made sure to get me on his team, and then – as captain, like always – devised a steady stream of plays that pitted Paul and I against each other. Every single down I landed underneath Paul or on top of him, and struggled to show no reaction, while Barry smirked in the background.

I resigned myself to Barry's half-playful, half-pointed torment; I was in no position to call him out. But I could see how much it irritated Paul. As always, Paul's frustration at the trap he found himself in showed in myriad little ways. I couldn't help paying attention to his habits, so I noticed that he spent less time on the estate and went out more in the evenings with other people. At home he had a harder, more brittle edge when he dealt with people like my parents, and Tiran who had never been his favourite. Often I wished he could find more peace.

The rest of my life went on more or less as usual. I managed to pick up most of the threads and carry on. One of the first things I did was contact Kip. After Dodge died, I'd spoken to Kip about possibly hiring someone else from the hood for the occasional job; I'd figured he could recommend me someone, and maybe take a percent of my payments off the top for his trouble.

Now I wanted to let him know that wouldn't be happening. I also needed him to fill in a few of the gaps for my confessions, though obviously I didn't explain why. We exchanged a few words, and I could easily sense Kip's desperation; he'd never really been able to get out from under that opening debt I'd left him with, and now he was two years older, with ambitious younger boys nipping at his heels. I wondered if he would ask me again for help, as he had once early on, and Paul's word, _reparations_ , flashed through my mind. But Kip didn't ask – he must have given up hope on me – and I didn't offer.

Working on the list for Paul meant I had less free time, but if people asked, I could easily blame schoolwork for that. I also had less interest in hanging out with the other kids; their world seemed oddly narrow to me now. Of course I couldn't avoid it entirely and didn't really want to, but I limited my socializing and rarely left the estate at night.

To be honest, I didn't entirely trust myself in social environments; I could only too easily imagine a scenario that Paul would hear about. Initially I thought his first rule would be easy to follow; I could simply cut contact with my old confederates, stop hiring out vengeance, and turn the other cheek if circumstances required. By this time my reputation at school and with the other kids was pretty well cemented – even Jeannie's death had helped me, taking off the pressure to show up at the Prom – and I could probably coast where I was without expecting many more challenges.

But – as I'd started to realize with Barry – the reality turned out to be more complicated than I'd anticipated. Up till now, I'd never thought about the many and various ways I might be affecting other people as I went about my life. As with that evening on the beach with Jeannie, I just figured out what I wanted or needed and cast around for a way to get it. Sometimes I might proceed cautiously, or maybe not at all, if I thought a plan was risky; but the impact on other people had never factored into my calculations.

Now I had to second-guess myself constantly, stop and consider almost everything I did from all possible angles to make sure it wouldn't hurt anyone. It's not that I had been especially violent, aggressive or cruel – just entirely self-interested.

Working on the confession list helped, in a way. Though I hated every minute of it, analyzing the impact of my past actions on other people got me into the routine of applying the same analysis to my daily life. Still, breaking a life-time pattern and training myself to look at things a new way would take a lot of work and a long time.

In the meantime, I tried to stay out of trouble by keeping busy and limiting my interaction with the other kids. When school finished, I talked to Adele about taking some training over the summer. Of course I still had every intention of graduating high school and that was a long way away – but I figured I didn't need to wait till then to start exploring my interest in cooking more seriously. Adele agreed, and with a few adjustments for my lack of literacy, I finished two basic cooking classes before school started again.

But a lot had changed since the day Jeannie died – not just in my outlook, but in the way I got along with other people. My parents seemed almost guarded with me now, though I actually found myself identifying more with Pat; the way he acted in Tiran's presence was exactly how I felt in Paul's.

Working for Tiran took me to the big house a lot, and I often saw Paul there. Though the Foundation had an office in town, Paul came by almost daily to talk to Tiran or his accountants, or to bring paperwork for processing.

The other adults tended to congregate at Tiran's house as well; not just while on duty but whenever Uncle Rocky came down, when Tiran or Dusty got back from a trip or friends visited. People often gathered at the big house for breakfast, or hung out with Tiran on the terrace, by the tennis courts or at the little beach behind his house.

Now that everything at all related to Paul seemed crucially important to me, I paid much closer attention to the adults – how he interacted with them, and how they related to each other.

I'd known for a long time that Paul didn't much like Tiran, but I couldn't quite share his opinion. For a while I saw Tiran watching me curiously and I'm sure he guessed about Paul; but unlike Barry, he didn't do anything about it. I had the impression Tiran liked to know things but didn't feel a need to show that he did, and I appreciated his discretion.

Uncle Rocky stayed at the main house whenever he came to the estate, and he and Tiran were like an indivisible unit – brothers, allies, lovers. Rocky would yield to Tiran when pushed but didn't hesitate to speak his mind, and however provoking that was, Tiran couldn't stay angry at him for long.

The other adults obviously adored Rocky. Even Paul, who of course saw Rocky as being on Tiran's team, seemed fond of him. It's like the estate had a collective view of Tiran as a capricious tyrant capable of anything, and Rocky as a kind of hero-martyr for putting up with him.

I suspected that Tiran let people think worse of him than he was, while Uncle Rocky was happy to let people think the better of him. Myself, I thought they weren't so different from each other. Both had the same tendency to put themselves first and their family and friends second; there was no third – neither of them gave a thought to anyone outside their immediate circle. Paul was the only one I knew who did that.

The more I found out about Paul, the more I elevated him in my mind. I saw now how the others lived for their own pleasure while Paul devoted his energy to larger issues. In the framework familiar to me from all those old movies, Paul continued to be the gallant knight, always active in someone else's interest and indifferent to his own.

Curious about his work, I researched the Foundation and found plenty of media coverage about it, and about Paul too. He seemed to be widely respected, seen as a pioneer and revolutionary in advocacy work. I ended up learning a lot about his field and trying to follow the issues – just in case I ever had a chance to talk to him about his work, I guess.

Which didn't look like it would happen any time soon. We'd settled into a bit of a pattern by now: I'd send Paul an update on my list once a week, and weekend nights I'd wait in the clearing; maybe half the time he showed up.

I went to one of the downtown shops and bought a small selection of whips, which Paul came to prefer over the switches. So now I only cut those occasionally, when we met in the clearing in the middle of the night and Paul didn't come prepared.

Every couple of weeks Paul would meet with me in person to review my updates. At first he ordered me to meet him in the woods for these discussions; I think he disliked having me on his property. But even though few people frequented that area besides us, some did, and the odd time we'd be interrupted in the middle of a meeting.

One day Phillip stepped into the clearing just a few minutes after I did and I knew he'd followed me there. I could understand his curiosity, and he didn't catch anything that gave away the nature of my bond with Paul. But I'm sure he saw that we had a prearranged appointment, which probably only confirmed his suspicions.

After that Paul always had me meet him in his backyard. I continued to work on my confessions, and he asked questions and prompted me for details until he was satisfied I'd given him everything I could. Sometimes the stories he pulled out of me would stoke him into a fervour of rage, until finally he'd order me up against a tree and I'd get the beating I still craved.

Still, Paul never allowed me inside his house, and he didn't have much use for idle chatter with me. I wondered a lot about him and would have liked to ask questions – not about what I should do, but about what he did, his job, the work he'd done, the choices he'd made. But he didn't give me opportunity for that.

If I couldn't engage him in conversation, at least I spent time with him on a fairly regular basis. I heard his reactions, saw through his eyes, felt his judgement in my flesh. For now, I could be content with that.


	24. Chapter 24

I don't know what made this one day different; for some reason my thoughts and emotions seemed heightened, more intense, though I didn't dare show anything when I met Paul in his backyard. Maybe that was the day I realized we had come to an understanding, an uneasy truce. I remember a sense of overwhelming relief and gratitude, and wishing I had a way to show it.

We were going over some of my confessions about Kip, and I didn't try to hide the things I'd done to him; things I hadn't thought twice about back then. Paul interrupted one of my descriptions to ask me how old Kip was at the time, and when I guessed about ten or eleven, his face paled and then grew deep red and stony. I recognized that reaction and figured I was in for one of his more uncontrolled beatings. Then he asked a question I didn't expect.

"What about you, Tom? Did someone do that kind of thing to you when you were the same age?"

Paul rarely took an interest in what might have been done to me; usually he focused only on what I'd done to others. I didn't know what answer he wanted, and I feared making any impression of excusing myself. But I didn't dare avoid the truth, so I just said, "Yes, sir."

I couldn't read his expression after that. He asked a few more questions, and then sent me to undress and get ready. Lately Paul had been using the single-tailed whip I'd bought downtown and I still hadn't adjusted to the whole different level of pain it produced. I'd brought a pair of wrist cuffs with me today, and after I put them on and got into position with my hands around the tree and over the branch on the other side, I begged Paul to clip the cuffs together so that I wouldn't be able to move.

When I was locked in place he started, pacing the lashes carefully, covering my back methodically and pausing between each cut. Though this kind of long slow beating took time and probably hurt more in the end than one of Paul's more frenzied explosions, I liked it better. I loved the care he seemed to take placing each stroke, the rush of steadily increasing intensity and the way his even rhythm obliterated the rest of the world, lulling me into a kind of trance in which nothing mattered but the spreading fire on my back.

When he stopped, at last, I let myself fall limply against the tree as I came out of my haze – replete, satisfied, grateful. Paul could have been much different today.

After a moment he came forward to unlock my wrists. Released, I slid down to my knees at the base of tree. He took a step toward me, maybe to see if I was okay, and my forehead fell against his thigh. I could feel the wiry, tensed muscles of his leg, his rough skin wet with sweat, and another wave of gratitude surged through me at the thought of his exertion on my behalf.

Shifting slightly, I turned my face up to nuzzle at him. That's when I knew the answer to my old question for sure: it seemed he took no pleasure from my pain. If anything, I think that disappointed me; I had a vague desire to share my contentment. Before he could step back, I slid my hands, the cuffs still circling my wrists, up to his hips, then pressed my mouth against the fabric at his groin. My touch was tentative for fear of offending him, but even so I felt a stirring of response behind his clothes, and for a second Paul seemed to hesitate, caught between desire and rejection. I held myself still, not daring to go further, and then he thrust against me.

After that he drove the action, as he so often did, and I tried my best to keep up. He pulled back briefly and I scrambled to undo the fastenings at his waist until I could nestle my face against the exposed flesh there. Then his hands tightened against my head impatiently, so I took his hardening cock into my mouth while he held me in place and plunged in and out, fucking my face more than letting me service him.

He finished quickly, and I swallowed and cleaned him off, but he turned away to fasten himself back up. After a few minutes of silence, not really sure what I wanted to say, I began, "Sir … "

But he cut me off. "Go home, Tom," he said without expression, without looking at me. This time I didn't dare disobey.

In my bed that night I couldn't help exulting. Maybe this was it – now, finally, I'd found the thing that would keep Paul happy and willing to put up with me.

I should have known better. The next day he ordered me over to his house and when I arrived, he handed me a large thick envelop.

"Here," he said. "We're done."

I stood, just at the edge of the terrace, holding the package and looking at him blankly. "What do you mean, done?"

"It's over. Go home. I won't bother you again."

I stared, stunned. " _What_?"

"You heard me." Paul started toward the French doors leading into his house, then stopped and turned back to me. "Don't worry about the confessions. I've erased everything you sent me. Those" – he gestured at the envelope in my hand – "are all the hard copies I had. Yours to destroy."

"But – but _why_ , sir? What did I do? Please, please don't do this." I fell to my knees, close to his feet but not daring to touch him.

"Stop worrying. I won't tell anyone."

I gripped a nearby chair leg, my knuckles white with frustration. "That's not – I don't care about that. Is it – because of what I did yesterday? I'm sorry, I won't do it again. I didn't mean – "

"What _I_ did," he said, interrupting me.

I didn't understand him, and broke off, trying to figure out what he meant.

He had that look of bitter resignation again, like he'd been let down too many times to care. "I just did the same thing I blamed you for. I can hardly condemn you now, can I?"

It took me a long moment to work out his meaning. "You don't mean – but you didn't – "

"I'm no better than you are," he said flatly, and pulled open the door. "So who am I to judge you? Now please get out of here. I don't like being reminded."

"Mr. Armstrong, that wasn't – _rape_. I wasn't unwilling. I – fuck, I started it! How can you possibly – "

He paused. "You had no choice."

"Of course I had a choice! With respect, sir, I'm a lot stronger than you. You couldn't force me into anything if I didn't – "

"That's not what I mean, Tom. Force isn't always physical."

"But I'm sixteen! That's legal now."

"I don't care what the law says."

"You – " I shook my head, trying to follow his thinking. "You think I felt … obligated? Coerced?"

He started inside again, and I lunged after him to grab at his ankle. "Please, please wait! I swear, I _wanted_ it. I wanted that yesterday, more than you did. How can I show you – ?" I remember looking around wildly, frantically searching for some way to prove what I said. I would have bent over for him there in the yard if I thought that would convince him. But wouldn't he just put it down to more coercion? "Ask Tiran if I'm telling the truth," I said at last, miserably.

He shook me off. "I'm going to ask Tiran if you really wanted to blow me? I don't think so. Anyway, it doesn't matter," he added, his voice resigned again. "Even if you wanted it, I didn't _know_ that. I thought you … It doesn't make it any better."

"You _knew_ ," I said, a despairing moan. "You must have. I was … "

"It doesn't matter. I won't tell your parents unless you do something else, so I don't know what you're worried about. You're free. You can report me if you want."

But even when he went inside and shut the door I refused to leave, parking myself on my knees outside his door, begging him to come back out and talk to me. I only left when he threatened to call security and have me removed.

For two weeks I pursued him relentlessly, sending messages, waiting outside his gate, stalking his running routes. I prowled the wooded area endlessly, hoping to see him there. At first he ignored the messages and the interceptions, but finally, one day, when I'd all but given up hope, I found him down by the water's edge on the other side of the grove, and knew instantly he'd been waiting for me.

I don't remember everything we talked about that day; what I remember most is his still, sad face, suffused with something like regret or stoic endurance, as he listened to my helpless pleas. For the first time, I had the impression he might not actually loathe me.

He seemed less concerned about the sex now; I think he accepted that I considered it voluntary, and if he didn't excuse his own role he'd at least come to terms with it. Now he wanted to know why it mattered so much to me, for us to continue as we had been; why I couldn't be content with a mutual stalemate. I explained it as well as I could – the way I saw things differently through him, the way his vision showed me the impact of my actions, the way the beatings met my craving to be held accountable. He didn't understand why others, like my parents, couldn't help me with that and I tried to describe how they avoided looking at me head-on. I told him that I feared making more mistakes, that I had a lifetime of thought and practice to change, that I didn't want to lose what I'd so recently gained.

"So it's not really about protecting your parents?" he asked at last.

"It is. I don't want to lose them or cause them pain," I said. "Without you, I'm scared. It's just a matter of time till I screw up again."

That sent him off on his usual rant. "I can't be responsible for your actions, Tom. I'm not – "

But I had thought this through more carefully by now, and tried to soothe him. "It's not about that, sir. I'm not asking you to take responsibility for me; I'm learning to make decisions for myself. I'm just asking for your – your guidance. Your example. It's like the way you see the world shows me the path. Is it so terrible that I need you to just … shine a little light?"

He still looked troubled. "But the – the violence, Tom. The beatings. That can't be good for either of us."

"It's good for me," I said with conviction. "You don't – you don't know what it's like, to suddenly look back on your life and see yourself as this – monster. Just like you said. And I can't do anything about it. All I can do is live with it. You help me live with it."

He sighed. "Why does it have to be me?"

"No one else gives me what you do. I need you. And I want you." I recognized the truth in the moment I spoke the words. "I – care about you."

When he gave in at last, I sank to the ground and kissed his feet impulsively, overwhelmed with joy and relief. I thanked him, promised him anything he wanted, offered everything I could think of. He sent me off with instructions to re-send the confessions and report to him in three days.

 

******

 

I don't need to say how happy I was for the next little while. We fell back into our former routine, only now something had changed or shifted slightly; Paul never seemed to view me with quite the same level of contempt as he used to, and every now and again I caught him with that sad, regretful look. He could still be forceful enough with the whip and demanding with the confessions, and his moments of uncontrollable fury never disappeared completely. I don't think he ever really escaped the sense of being trapped.

Unfortunately I had to cross off sex from my mental list of possible ways to please him. Though I'd given him permission as explicitly as I knew how, he still seemed reluctant to pursue it, and I wasn't about to try anything again without clear direction.

Other than that my contentment was near complete. Perhaps my giddy pleasure showed, because Adele stopped me once to ask if everything was all right. Only parents, I guess, see too much happiness as a warning sign.

"Are you sure you're – making good choices," she said, with her usual tentative obliqueness.

I wondered what she was getting at. "I'm … trying to," I said, after a moment.

"I mean, are you – " She paused and chewed her lip, trying to formulate her words. "You seem happy," she said finally.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Is that a problem?"

"Of course not. But I can't help … Has there been some big change, Tommy?"

"Kind of," I said warily.

"Are you – seeing someone?" she asked.

That's when I got it. Phillip must have talked to her. Damn him and his mature sense of family responsibility. "Yes, but mom – I'm sorry, but I can't talk about it."

"Tommy, he – he's much, much older than you."

"Adele. I can't – "

"It's not healthy, Tom."

I took a breath. "I have a pretty good idea of what's healthy for me now. You're just going to have to trust me on this, mom."

And in the end, as usual, she did.

 

******

 

Life went on, and summer closed into fall. When school started up, I'd be joining a regular classroom. I had finished pre-literacy coaching at the end of the last year and practised a bit over the summer. By next year I'd finally have joined the reading world and I looked forward to that. For now I was dictating my confessions, and I thought writing them might be easier.

I met Paul at his house every week or two. Usually he'd be there waiting for me, but one late afternoon I showed up as instructed, only to find an empty yard and no response to my taps at his door.

I settled down patiently to wait, on the grass under the big tree. Eventually Paul sent a message that he'd be late and I could go home till he called me if I wanted. But I much preferred to stay where I was.

After an hour or maybe a little more, the gate rattled and Paul appeared, wearing an uncharacteristically formal suit, carrying a briefcase, and looking exhausted.

"Hey. Big meeting, took forever, couldn't get out." He mumbled a few phrases as he passed through the yard to the French doors. "Back in a minute."

"Yes, sir," I said, getting up. I went over to the terrace and knelt beside the chair he usually took.

But when he came back out, without his jacket and tie but still drawn and tired, he didn't sit down. "Look, Tom, I'm starving. I'm gonna have to eat before I can do anything else, and there's nothing here. I'll order something but it'll be at least an hour. You might as well go home to wait. Or we can re-schedule till tomorrow."

"Oh, no, please – " I said without thinking, and then, "Let me make you something – please."

"I told you, there's nothing here," he said, pulling out his comm. "I'll – "

"There's lots – I can fix you something really quick," I said. "Much faster and better than you can order."

"With what?" he demanded impatiently. "My kitchen is empty."

"The field gardens," I said, "Everything I need. If you want meat I'll grab something from home." I glanced around and nodded at the wood oven. "I won't even go inside your house, I promise – I can use this."

He seemed to hesitate, half-tempted, and I pushed my advantage. "Please, sir, go inside, have a drink, take it easy. I'll have something ready for you in thirty minutes. Okay?"

"I'm dying for a shower," he said, by way of agreement.

I was already on my feet, hand at the gate. "I'll be right back."

He didn't stop me so I flew off. I don't think I ever worked as fast as I did that day; thirty minutes was an unrealistically ambitious promise. First I ran to the gardens behind the rec centre, planning on my way – _think fast!_ _think simple!_ I told myself – and gathered what I needed; then home, to prep and prepare. Twenty minutes later I pushed open the gate into Paul's yard, carrying a tray of ingredients and cursing myself for not having started the oven before I left.

While the oven heated I put in a loaf of bread I'd made earlier that day so it would warm slowly. I threw together a salad while I waited, then tossed diced fresh tomatoes and shallots with oil from home and a few herbs from the gardens, and spread the mixture on the heated bread.

When Paul stepped outside a couple of minutes later, I asked him to bring a plate and utensils from his kitchen, and served him the apps to buy myself more time. With the oven hot, I seared a steak I'd taken from home, and left it to cook while a handful of root vegetables roasted alongside. By the time Paul had finished his first course, I was ready with the second.

He had brought a bottle of wine out with the dishes so I kept his glass topped up. At one point, as he ate, he gave me a quizzical glance and asked if I planned to have anything. But I'd only made enough for one, and anyway, I much preferred to stand beside him making sure he had everything he needed.

Watching Paul eat that night filled me with some of the sweetest satisfaction I've ever known. I had confidence in my cooking abilities, and though I knew I could do better in other circumstances, Paul seemed to enjoy the meal. Using my skills to please the man I most admired felt good; but something about standing beside him, attending him, watching the weariness in his face slowly smooth away into a kind of sated contentment, brought me a wholly different kind of pleasure.

I remembered Kip, bringing me trays and soothing away my stress; but, no, that wasn't quite it. Then I thought of Gabe, serving Tiran at every meal, and started to understand. It's different when the service you offer is not a requirement but a choice.

I thought about Paul again, and how he spent his days in a kind of service to strangers. What I'd brought to him – what I asked from him – was another kind of burden. His life would surely be easier if he were free of me; he knew it. He let me stay around out of love for Pat and Adele, and out of obligation to the numberless others I might hurt without his help; maybe even, somewhere in there, through a small impulse of compassion toward me.

For a moment I thought about Pat, and how devastated he'd be if he knew the truth about me. Adele too, and Phillip, and everyone who cared about me here. For once I thought I understood what it meant to love and be loved, and the power that had to create pain.

I couldn't free Paul from his cares, and knowing I added to his burden increased my sorrow. I'd been looking for a way to please him for my own ends – so that I'd keep getting what I wanted from him. Now for the first time I thought about what it meant for him. I wanted to ease his troubles and lighten his load, not because it might convince him to keep me around but because it might improve his life in some small way. I saw now that the route to my contentment lay through his, and finally I thought I knew how to get there.

 

******

 

When Paul had finished eating, I stacked up all the dishes and cleaned my work area as best I could without implements.

"I hate to leave you with the clean-up," I told him. "But I know you don't want me inside your house. Maybe I can take the dishes home and return them … "

He cocked his head a little over his wineglass, considering, and finally he smiled, very slightly. "It's okay," he said. "You can go ahead inside."

"Really?" I looked at him in amazement.

"Yeah." He laughed. "Maybe you can find something in the freezer for dessert."

I didn't argue any more. Grabbing the stack of dishes I went into his house for the first time. I found the kitchen, and the dishwasher, and then the freezer, and a carton of sorbet. In a minute I was back outside with a dish and a spoon for Paul. Finally, with nothing else to do for him, I knelt beside the man I thought of now as my master, and waited for him to be ready for me.

Later that night, after I got home, while I was alone in my bedroom and getting ready for bed, I got a call from one of my confederates in the old neighbourhood, who wanted to pass on some news. It turned out Kip had left town a few weeks ago, disappeared from sight. Only today the word had come back: he'd been spotted in a nameless town a few thousand miles away, with at a legit job in some kind of social service organization. I listened, first with disbelief, then astonishment, and finally with a slowly spreading sense of awe. He'd done it. He got out.

 

 

 

\- END -

 


End file.
